


and my glory shall be love

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-02
Updated: 2010-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is little that Agent Mike Wynn takes more seriously than the life of Vice President Nate Fick. When the number of death threats starts to climb, he calls in the one person he's sure he can trust, USMC Sgt. Brad Colbert, and assigns him the 24/7 task of being the Vice President's shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and my glory shall be love

"There's some folks that'll be pissed that I called you in on this, like it's favoritism and all that shit. As far as I'm concerned, they can fuck off. There's nobody else I'd think to ask. I talked it over with Person, and yours was the only name he brought up as well."

Seated across the desk from Mike Wynn, in a suit he hasn't worn in years, Brad lets one side of his mouth turn up slightly. "You ended up with Ray after all, huh? And forget about all that other shit; I think my CO was looking to get me out of Pendleton for a while anyway. Afraid I was going to go stir-crazy with no war on. So thanks, Gunny."

"You, go crazy," Wynn snorts. He leans forward; his expression sobers and his voice turns serious. "There have been a number of serious threats made against the Vice President's life in the last six weeks, starting in late July," he says. "This past week, it has become apparent that the threat could potentially be working inside the Senate or the White House. References have been made to things that no one outside those places should know. It's definitely not some extremist in a log cabin somewhere."

He gestures at a collection of scribbled notes, all in protective plastic sleeves, pinned up on a bulletin board that covers an entire wall of his second-floor office. "Now, my agents - even Person - are somewhat bound by shift hours, rotations, things like that. I can't assign a single one of them to be with the Vice President constantly, as much as these threats concern the Agency. And if it's someone on the inside, as fucked up as that would be, I don't want someone who could potentially be my perp getting that close to the VP. My biggest fear is that we've got a leak, somewhere. So that's where you come in. I need you to be his shadow, Brad."

"Roger that."

"Active-duty Corps doesn't care about pesky things like forty hours a week when it comes to shit like this," Wynn says, with a half-smile, half-grimace. "But it won't be a hundred percent, not unless something goes bad. My night team is the best I could get, so you can sleep in your own hotel bed, at least for now."

"I'm ready for anything."

Wynn scrawls his name on a couple forms and slides them into a faded, fraying inter-office envelope. "All set. I think you'll like Fick."

Brad knows how he means it – the man, not the politician.

Wynn tosses the envelope at him, then tilts his head just a few degrees to the right. "You'll know one or two of the boys, I reckon. I pulled a few strings to get who I wanted." He pauses briefly. "Think it's strange so many military folks ended up doing this?"

Brad shakes his head. He's just here on loan, but he could probably come up with something if he thought about it long enough. Now's not the time. Somewhere there's a common thread; he's just not going to hunt for it. "Nah, Mike, we just like getting shot at."

Wynn laughs and holds out his hand for Brad to shake, a formality that had long passed them by, left back on the highways of Iraq but somehow fitting here, right now. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Welcome to the Secret Service, Sergeant Colbert."

*

Nathaniel Fick, Vice President, is even better-looking in person. Until now, Brad had only seen him in pictures and on the news: grainy video from his Marine days (strangely enough, most from a one-day humanitarian mission in East Timor), footage from his Senate campaign, various impassioned speeches. Brad spends the weekend before he has to officially report to the White House learning the names and faces of all the staff members – and seeking out everything he can find on Fick. He learns all the things he'd ignored during the campaign, like how Fick has a pretty blonde fiancée who had decided to postpone their wedding until his term ended. That strikes Brad as odd, how the VP and his fiancée hadn't gotten around to getting married yet, but as far as Brad can tell, Fick had finished his military service and gone straight into politics without so much as a breath.

Monday morning, his first impression is that Fick carries himself like a Marine officer, and that's a definite plus in Brad's book. Body language is important. Fick looks him straight in the eyes and his handshake is firm and dry, none of that macho crushing shit that Brad knows some soldiers are prone to, and Brad says crisply, "Mr. Vice President."

"Good to meet you, Brad. You should know Mike's done nothing but regale me with stories of the Iceman since he knew he could get you."

Brad brings his hands to his sides. "Gunny's a liar, sir. Any tales he tells you about me are surely pale and lackluster imitations of what actually happened."

The corner of Fick's mouth quirks slightly as Wynn coughs nearby.

"I'm here to work, sir," Brad continues. "Agent Wynn has promised me the security tour and a round of introductions of some sort, and I should probably get to it."

"I'll bring him back shortly, Mr. Vice President," Wynn says, "although you might be sick of him already. I know I am. Let's go, Colbert."

Fick has already been called away by the President's secretary – Lilley – and Brad follows Wynn from the office.

*

For the most part, it's all a series of routines, and there is little that Brad loves more. The town car picks him up at the hotel every morning at 0500, with Person or Espera in the front next to the driver, who is usually a Marine Corporal. Another car with two more agents always follows behind. They reach Observatory Circle between 0520 and 0535, and relieve the night guards. The Vice President is most often awake, sitting at a table in the sun porch in PT gear with a cup of coffee, ignoring the toaster set up on the buffet. He takes his coffee black. He doesn't sleep in even on the rare occasions he has the opportunity. His fiancée is rarely there.

"So you turned down the personal chef, sir?" Brad asks one morning, as he pops up the toast before it can burn. "And who the hell decided to put the kitchen in the basement?"

"Seriously, you can call me Nate inside the house," Fick replies. He looks up from the day's agenda and frowns. "Are you buttering my toast?"

Brad finds a napkin and hands Nate the slice of toast. "You're reading. It would have burned. And I'm a Marine, not a firefighter."

Nate chuckles. "To answer your questions: no, I don't know who decided to put the kitchen in the basement, and yes, I turned down the chef. Do you know how many meals I actually eat here? It's not many."

"Breakfast nearly every day, if I make it, and occasionally you pretend a bowl of cereal is dinner," Brad says.

Fick – Nate, he amends, at least in his head – blinks at him. Brad raises an eyebrow, as if to remind him that knowing details is what he gets paid to do. Nate picks up the toast and takes a bite. After a moment of chewing, he says, "You can have a cup of coffee, you know. Or take some out to Ray."

Brad finds a mug, allows himself a half-cup, then takes the coffee pot out to Ray and refills his travel mug. When he returns to shut off the machine, Nate has finished his toast and is checking the laces on his running shoes. "Ray says thanks, sir." Ray had said more than that, mostly about a barista ex-girlfriend and the liberal fucking lattes she used to make, but Brad wasn't about to repeat it.

"Make sure you do that every morning from now on," Nate replies. He glances at Brad's feet. "You get new go-fasters?"

"I did. Mileage on the old Nikes was getting the fuck up there."

They run every morning, six miles round trip. Brad is always to Nate's left, Ray a few steps behind them, and with the extra car following. It's quiet this early. The sidewalk is mostly empty, a few other joggers here and there. After a few weeks, Brad knows just about everyone's face, because of course the same people run the same route every day, and they consistently pass the same people going to work at the Observatory. Brad's not worried about them; they're just trying to go to work like any other person. He's more worried about the guy who might jog parallel to them across the street, though, or someone lingering on a corner before a business even opens.

If he was Nate, he would worry about those things too, but Nate just runs, and leaves Brad and Ray to keep an eye out for the misfits, since they're armed. Jogging with two guns doesn't bother Brad in the slightest. It's still better than running in a MOPP suit with an M-16 banging into his side and a gas mask on his face.

He meets with Wynn again one morning, two weeks after starting. Fick is at the White House, one of the safest places he can be. Brad had felt an odd twinge at leaving him with Ray, despite knowing Ray, and knowing he was good at his job. He'd then shoved the twinge aside, refusing to think on it.

There's a television on in the corner playing CNN. The top international news for the last week has been Iran's refusal, yet again, to allow inspectors in to check on their nuclear program. There's a clip of Ahmadinejad, still in power, his hair gone completely gray and his face a mask of calm as he argues with a British reporter about the jurisdiction of the UN.

"Fucking mess, isn't it?" Wynn asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the television.

"Absolute shitstorm," Brad agrees.

"Ahmadinejad's grip on the country is tenuous at best right now. And if there's an invasion I'm not sure I'd be allowed to keep you around."

More than three decades in and out of the Middle East, Brad's sure that the various conflicts will continue long after he's dead and gone. "Surely you didn't call me in here to talk about the _theoretical_ liberation of Iran, Gunny," he says.

Wynn moves right to the point. "How's everything going with the Vice President?"

"We get along."

"Glad to hear it. Anything standing out to you as strange, so far?"

Brad shakes his head. "There's nothing on my end. Something you're not telling me?"

"Truth be told, it's the same old, same old right now. Our foe hasn't surfaced yet this week, a fact that concerns me more than if another letter had arrived."

Brad understands this for what it is: keep an even closer eye on Nate. "Roger that."

*

There are long stretches during the day that Brad spends standing at attention outside of various meeting rooms in various buildings on Capitol Hill. He and Ray call it fire watch, joking under their breath when they trade off positions. Right away, Brad gets used to picking out the VP's voice from the dozen or so others also in the room, following the lifts and lulls, the measured replies, the sharp rebuttals. He's never cared much for politics, at least, not the way he's seen it played. Now he finds himself paying attention. Quickly, he realizes that Ferrando's administration runs much like Recon – the President sends Fick out to gather information, then has him report back. Brad appreciates that approach.

The Senate's not in session yet. Brad feels almost - _almost_ \- lazy as he trails Fick around Washington, drinking fancy expensive coffee out of cardboard cups. "You really like this stuff, sir?" he asks, as he hands the Vice President his coffee through the open door.

"It's black coffee, Brad," Nate says dryly. "You should know, you got it for me."

Brad gives him a half-smile and checks his sectors before he slides back into the car. "You don't like the beverage service at the White House?"

"I like making you run in to Starbucks to pick up my coffee _more_."

Brad knows for a fact that the White House only serves Jamaican Blue Mountain, so he simply narrows his eyes at Nate over the lid of his cup, blowing on the hot liquid through the small hole. "What's on the agenda this evening?" he asks after it's cooled enough that he can take a few sips.

"Iranian nuclear policy."

"With Godfather?"

Nate nods and tries to hide a yawn with his cup. No wonder he'd wanted to stop.

"You know, I think you are the most well-informed Vice President in history, sir," Brad says.

"Godfather doesn't believe in secrets. Not about the Middle East. Not when it's someplace I've been." Nate reaches up to adjust his tie. It's blue with a diamond pattern today, an excellent tie on him. "You know we could have served together?"

"Yes." Brad can imagine Nate sweating alongside him in a stinking MOPP suit, woodland camo when they should have had desert, driving across Iraq in a tin-plated Humvee with twenty other guys amped on Ripped Fuel. "I'd say we did, sir, just a few companies apart."

Nate gives him a look as if to say _that's acceptable, Sergeant_ , and the car slows to a stop. Inside the White House, Nate hands Brad his paper cup. "I should probably switch to the Blue Mountain now," he murmurs, and Brad keeps a straight face until Nate's gone into the Oval Office and the door's been shut.

Then he shakes his head, grinning. "Mr. Lilley, you got a trash can around here?"

"This White House recycles, Sgt. Colbert; there's a sink down the hall there to your left." Lilley points.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm in a sitcom," Brad murmurs to Ray.

"No sitcom could ever get this right, homes, you gotta be in it to know it," Ray replies, and follows him down the hall. Brad empties the cooling coffee into the sink, and drops the cups into the appropriately labeled bin. _This White House recycles._ Jesus.

He turns to Ray, who is checking out the box of doughnuts that had been set on the counter. "Those are probably old," he says.

Ray shrugs and picks one up, squeezing it a little. "Nah, still okay."

Brad rolls his eyes. "So just how did you end up here?"

Ray looks at the bottom of his chosen doughnut like he's afraid it's going to give up and give out, and drip red jelly all over his suit. "Went to college after I got out of the Corps, man. Then I was a cop for a few years, real Law and Order shit."

"So you wrote innocent people speeding tickets."

"C'mon, Brad, only to the ones who deserved it. I left the little old ladies alone. Quit giving me shit just because you got a problem with the law, dude." But Ray's grinning, and Brad elbows him in the side. "Then I got recruited by this outfit, can you believe it?"

"No, I can't," Brad deadpans, even though he's sure he knows what they saw in Ray.

Ray snorts and takes a huge bite of the doughnut. "Fuckin' missed you too, Sergeant." Jelly drips down onto his shoe. "Aw, hell."

"That's fucking disgusting. Hurry up and eat, you cretin." Brad's not entirely sure how long Nate's meeting will last, and it wouldn't look right for Ray to have powdered sugar on his jacket, ex-cop or not.

Three hours later, Nate comes out of the Oval Office with a dark look on his face and a stack of folders under one arm. In the car, he says nothing. Brad doesn't attempt to engage him in conversation. Inside the residence, Nate drops the files on a table and shrugs out of his suit jacket, then loosens his tie with a single harsh pull.

"Brad, with me," he says, not looking back as he strides into the study.

"Sir."

Nate gestures for him to shut the door, which Brad does, then waves a hand towards the chair. Brad continues to stand. Nate shrugs and sits down behind the desk, opening a drawer and taking out a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He pours one. "You're one of us," he says.

"What's your feeling on this Tehran thing?"

"I'm just a grunt, sir," Brad tells him. He only knows what's been on the news, and the snippets of conversation he picks up here and there, and he's sure there's more to it that even his ridiculously high security clearance isn't high enough to know.

Nate pins him with a look.

"I'm just a grunt, _Nate_ , " Brad amends.

"Don't play like I'm stupid. I read your file. The classified one." Nate's right eyebrow goes up, just a bit. "Don't ever run for public office, Brad, you've been naughty."

"Were you planning on punishing me, sir?" _Shit._ Flirting with the VP was not on Brad's to-do list for today. Even if the way Nate's mouth twitches is rewarding. Not quite rewarding enough to make up for getting sent back to Pendleton, though. He sort of likes it here. He sort of likes _Nate_.

Brad clears his throat, intending to apologize, but Nate holds up a hand. "Tehran?" he prompts.

"Not going to back down in my lifetime, or yours. And definitely not in Ahmadinejad's."

"Tell me something I don't know."

There isn't really anything Brad can say that Nate doesn't already know, but Nate is still looking at him expectantly. "Fundamental differences," Brad says finally. "Any international studies major could tell you that. He says one thing and does another. Remember when he told TIME Magazine that the time for bombs has come to an end? And then he went right back to his nuclear activities? Short of sending in a black ops team to dispatch him to the great beyond, you're fucked."

"I don't think Godfather's ruled that out."

Brad huffs a laugh. "I love that everyone calls him that, not just the protection detail."

"Catchy, isn't it?" Nate's smile is nothing short of disarming. "Did you want a drink?"

"I'm on duty."

"You're not, because I say you're not. Rudy's in the kitchen, has been since I dragged you in here. This is purely a social visit, now."

Social visits with Nate aren't on Brad's to-do list, either. "In that case, Nate, I should go back to my hotel and get some sleep," he says, as plain as possible, "seeing as Christopher will be around to pick me up at 0430 before we come collect you for the airport."

"Brad-"

Brad shakes his head, stopping whatever Nate had been about to say. "I'll see you in the morning."

" _Brad._ " Nate pushes the second glass across the desk. "I know you have a bag already packed in the car. And I have a second bedroom, and a third bedroom."

He sits down and takes the glass. "They're going to talk about why I didn't go home."

Nate shrugs. "So we'll say there's been a change in the ROE. And furthermore: they're not going to talk about it at all. You know why? Because I'm the Vice President of the United States, and they'll be so fucked if they say anything that it will be years before they get un-fucked. No one ever wants to sit down, have a quiet drink and play a game of chess with me without having it be a goddamn meeting at the same time. So I'm deciding right now that you're going to, Colbert. Because I say so."

"Yes, sir," Brad says, saluting.

Nate smirks and gets up to fetch the chessboard. Brad turns the bottle of scotch so he can see the label, then pours. "A gift from some foreign dignitary?"

"My fiancée's parents," Nate says with a wry smile, sliding the chessboard onto the desk.

Oh, the fiancée. Brad has met Tricia several times now. He's not entirely sure he likes her.

"You do play, right?" Nate asks.

"What military man doesn't?"

It's more vicious than Brad expects. Each move is its own battle. Nate wins, and immediately accuses Brad of letting him triumph. "I would never, Mr. Vice President," Brad scoffs.

Nate bites at his bottom lip and glares at Brad darkly. "Rematch?"

"It's past midnight," Brad points out, keeping his gaze off Nate's mouth. _Fuck._ He's definitely attracted to the VP. This isn't right at all.

"I'll sleep on the plane."

"You won't sleep on the plane."

Nate returns the pieces to their starting points. "You're not my babysitter."

"Funny, I thought I was." Brad leans back in the chair, hand cupped around his glass. He raises an eyebrow at Nate, who scowls and finishes his scotch. "I know I've only been around a few weeks," Brad continues, "but I think I can say with reasonable certainty you won't sleep on the plane."

"Neither will you."

Brad will allow that, because it's true. He looks at Nate across the desk, taking in his open collar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Point," he says, drawing out the word.

Nate stares back at him. "I think we're at a stalemate," he says finally.

"You should get Ahmadinejad to sit down at a chessboard with you, sir."

"I think the more exciting game would be to watch him play you."

Brad can't help but chuckle, shaking his head. This time, he lets himself watch as Nate's mouth curls into a smile.

"On second thought, I don't want you to play chess with anybody but me."

Okay, Brad's going to have to have a stern talk with his to-do list and how he isn't supposed to flirt with the VP. Even if Nate seems to be flirting back. Still, he doesn't stop himself from replying, "I think that could be arranged, sir," if only to see the satisfied look on Nate's face.

*

The plane lands with a squeal, and Brad raises his eyes from the book he's only sort of paying attention to. He meets Nate's gaze and quirks an eyebrow. Nate jerks his chin at the book and Brad lifts it up a little so Nate can see. "Can I borrow that sometime?" Nate asks.

"You don't have time to read," Brad replies.

Nate looks at the stack of briefs on the seat next to him. "Strange, I get a lot of reading done for someone who has no time for it."

"I take it back. You don't have time to read for _fun_."

"And you're reading a book about societal collapse for fun?"

Brad ignores this and slides the book back into his rucksack. There's several things he could say, but there are four other people within hearing distance, and Brad thinks it's bad enough that Mike Wynn has figured out that Brad has actually entered into something that could be called _friendship_ with the VP. "It's weird," he'd said to Brad, grinning. "I haven't seen you be this nice to someone in _forever_."

Brad had flipped him off and gotten on the plane.

It's quiet as they disembark and slide into the waiting car. Nate gazes out the window while they wait, and Brad can hear Person speaking in a low voice to someone from the police escort that's staged all around them. "Does it ever get old?" Brad asks.

"What's that?"

"All this, just for you." He waves a hand, indicating the squad cars and motorcycles. For a brief second, Brad feels a flash of longing for his own bike, darker and sleeker than the bulked up police cycles.

The front passenger door opens, and Ray gets in. "Ready to hit the road, sir."

"Thank you, Ray."

The car starts moving, and Nate tips his head from side to side. Brad can hear joints popping. "No," Nate says after a long moment, "no, it doesn't get old."

Red and white lights flash through the windows as they travel towards the primary lodging, a hotel that Brad knows to be about ten minutes from the airport. It's late, and traffic is light. He's almost to the point of being lulled by the smooth ride of the car when there's a loud pop and bang, and the car swerves. Instinctively, he grabs Nate and pushes him to the floor, covering Nate's body as much as he can with his own. The car speeds up; Ray is yelling something into his radio and yelling at the driver to floor it at the same time.

Nate makes an aborted, restless movement beneath him. "Stay the fuck down, Nate," Brad hisses, pressing into him. The car puts on another burst of speed, then screeches to a stop. Doors open, and then Ray and Espera are pulling both him and Nate from the vehicle. They'd immediately detoured to the smaller, closer secondary lodging, and ahead Brad sees the service entrance. Wide-eyed hotel employees hurry out of their way as they run, as a group, through the swinging door and into an empty room.

Then they stop. Brad counts Ray, Poke, and six uniformed police officers all standing as a barrier between Nate and the door of the room. Ray is still shouting into a radio. He looks at Nate. "Are you all right?"

Nate's eyes are huge as he nods. Brad resists the urge to check him for injuries.

"I doubt we'll be coming back to Chile anytime soon, Mr. Vice President," Ray says. "There's a motherfucking bullet lodged in the side of your car. Who the fuck shoots at a closed motorcade?"

"Whiskey tango motherfuckers, that's who," Nate replies, and that breaks the tension just enough that Brad sees people start to breathe again. "And to think, we just got here. Might as well turn around and go home."

"All units, secure the hotel," Ray says into his handset, then gestures for Poke to take some of the uniforms and go. "Sir, I'm gonna leave you with Sergeant Colbert while we do this thing, but there's gonna be two uniforms outside this door."

"Do what you need to do."

Ray leaves, and Brad looks at Nate. "You okay?" he asks again, but softer this time.

"Shit, Brad." Nate rubs a hand over his close-cropped hair.

"I know." They're still standing close, and Brad puts his hand on Nate's forearm and squeezes. "Congratulations, Nate, you just survived your first assassination attempt. Whatever else gets accomplished on this trip, this is all the news is going to report on."

Nate rolls his eyes. "Nothing is going to get accomplished. Shooting at me guarantees that. In less than ten minutes, there's going to be a call from Wynn, or maybe even Godfather himself, telling me to get my ass back to Washington before anyone else decides to take a shot."

"Say no," Brad suggests.

"What?"

"Say you're going to stay here and do this." Brad's not exactly sure what Nate's series of meetings with Chile's foreign affairs ministers is about, but that's because he's made a conscious effort to avoid knowing. He doesn't want to know those things. He just wants to complete this mission of keeping Nate alive no matter where they go.

Nate looks skeptical at first, then thoughtful, but before he says anything, there's a knock on the door and Person identifying himself. Brad opens the door. "We're set, sir," Ray says to Nate. "I can escort you up to your room if you're ready."

"Lead on."

They're in the sitting room for less than three minutes when the phone rings. Brad picks it up. "Colbert."

It's an aide to the President of Chile, with the President holding for Nate. Brad rests the receiver against his chest. "Prieto for you, sir," he says.

Nate nods and takes the phone. Brad slips through a door into the adjoining bedroom, and stands to the right of the window, looking out of it at an angle. Below him, Santiago glitters with lights. He can hear Nate talking but can't make out any of the words. It's quiet for a moment, then the phone rings again and Nate answers it. Brad wonders why no aide has appeared to cover the phone. He's used to at least one of them tagging along most places. There's more conversation, then footsteps.

"Brad," Nate says quietly from behind him, and Brad turns.

"We going home?"

"No, I told Ferrando I'm staying."

Brad nods. "Nate - how come you didn't bring an aide?"

"Yet another person to shadow my every step?" Nate asks, raising an eyebrow. "I already have you for that. And I did bring Wright, Stafford and Christeson. They were in the other car." He sits down on the bed, his shoulders slumping. Suddenly, he looks exhausted, as if all the adrenaline is bleeding out of him at once.

Brad crosses the room without thinking and kneels down at Nate's feet. Nate blinks at him in surprise. "Brad?"

"Just - let me," Brad says. He unties Nate's black wingtips and slips them off. "What should I have the staff bring you for breakfast in the morning?" he asks, keeping his tone conversational as he skims his hands up the backs of Nate's legs, squeezing his calf muscles through his slacks.

"What? Oh, um, toast. And coffee."

"You'll want more than that; you didn't eat dinner." He raises up on his knees somewhat and reaches for Nate's wrist, unbuttoning the cuff of his plain white shirt.

"Didn't we have a discussion yesterday about how you're not my babysitter?"

Brad reaches for Nate's tie, but Nate's hands get there first. He settles for unbuttoning Nate's shirt from the bottom up instead. "I fail to see how being observant about your habits makes me your keeper," he says, struggling for a neutral tone.

Nate scoffs, sliding the tie from around his neck. "It's what you've been since Wynn brought you on board." He shrugs. "I won't hold it against you."

"Well, thanks for that, sir," Brad deadpans, reaching the top of Nate's shirt as Nate leans back slightly. Brad stands up. "I'm not sure where your bags are."

"Probably still in the shot-up car, but I am assured they'll be here by morning. What about yours?"

"Also probably still in the shot-up car, but slightly less assured to be here by morning." Brad takes his gun from the holster and lays it on the desk, then unbuttons his own cuffs. "I'll make do."

"I'd expect nothing less."

"Think you can finish getting yourself undressed?"

Nate grins, and Brad feels a wave of relief. "Yes. And I can probably also wipe my own ass without much trouble."

"That's good, sir, since I think I'd have to tell Gunny Wynn to take this job and fucking shove it if you asked me to wipe your Ivy League ass." He finishes removing his shirt and picks up his gun again. "I'll be on the couch. Get some goddamned sleep, Nate."

"That's definitely not babysitter language," Nate grumbles, and Brad grins as he goes into the sitting room. The couch is too short for him, so he ends up sleeping on the floor, but it's okay. He's slept in worse places.

*

By October, Brad is with the Vice President's team more hours than he isn't. He takes to keeping his belongings in the car at all times and his hotel room smells stale the few times a week he manages to key in long enough to jerk off in the shower and change his suit. He tries not to think about the edgy feeling that nudges at him when he has to leave watching the VP's back to someone else.

It's the longest mission he's ever been on in his life, and somehow, he's not bored yet.

Wynn finds him in the Russell Building one afternoon, at a table with a cup of coffee. "Where's Bravo?"

"With Senator Winters," Brad replies, slouching back in the chair. "They refuse to let me in."

"And that irritates you to no fucking end." This is punctuated with a grin.

Brad growls. "Were you here for a reason, Gunny, or is this your idea of providing company?"

"Do I ever go anywhere without a reason?" Wynn asks, and Brad just stares at him until he continues. "The Vice President gets, on average, a thousand death threats a year. Most are from crackpots who are pissed about taxes, or pissed about Medicare, or who are against whatever bill is currently before the Senate. This past year alone, Fick has gotten eighteen-hundred threats. He's gotten more than the President. And Chile was a fucking mess. You're going to move into the residence, Brad."

 _What the fuck._ "Aye-aye." He makes a little salute with his cup. Wynn rolls his eyes and leaves.

The radio crackles a warning, and then Person's voice is coming through the earpiece. "They're about to break, baby."

Brad checks his watch. It's past seven, earlier than he expected the VP to be done. He gets up, aims his cup at the trash, and goes to pick up Fick like it's the first day of kindergarten and someone needs to walk him to the bus. "Are you calling me a five year-old, Colbert?" Nate asks when Brad shares this.

"Yes."

"Does that mean there's milk and cookies waiting for me at home?"

"I guess that depends on whether or not you were a good boy today." He's given up on trying not to flirt.

They step out into the chill air, walking close enough that Brad doesn't miss Nate's swift intake of breath. "Oh, I was a very good boy. I mediated an entirely civilized conversation between two Senators who downright hate each other. I even got them to agree on a minor point regarding biodiesel subsidies."

"That sounds thrilling, sir." He waits for Ray to finish checking the outside of the car, then checks the interior before holding the door for Nate. "Also, I'm moving into your house."

Nate leans his head back against the seat and gives him a tired smile. "That's unfortunate for you, Brad."

"Is it?"

"I hope you enjoy tying my shoes for me every morning."

"It would be my pleasure, sir."

The corner of Nate's mouth twitches, and he shakes his head. Brad can tell he's trying not to laugh. The car slows and Brad checks his sectors outside the window. It looks like any other evening in Washington, people hurrying home from work with their heads down against the cold. "I'm surprised you finished up before ten," he says to Nate as they speed up again.

"Me, too. Now to go back to an empty house and a sandwich for dinner."

"You're the one that refused the chef," Brad says evenly.

"Well, according to Wynn, the less people that are going in and out of the residence right now, the better."

Brad acknowledges this with a nod, then says, "I'm afraid that toast is the height of my culinary abilities."

Nate snorts. "You're a terrible nanny. Can I trade you in for a more domestic model?"

Brad withholds he wants to say about nannies, because it is highly inappropriate, and instead merely narrows his eyes. Nate smirks at him, like he knows exactly what Brad's holding back. That defeats the purpose of keeping his mouth shut.

Brad likes to think he's made some good decisions in life, that he knows his place in the world and he knows what he's here to do. Constant flirting banter with the second most powerful man in the country is not a good decision by any definition. Yet it's a choice he keeps making, and Nate keeps firing back.

"Does it bother you that I'm always around?" Brad asks quietly.

"No."

The car stops. Brad retrieves his bag from the trunk as Nate goes inside. When he closes the lid of the trunk, Ray is standing there. "Jesus, Person, what's with the ninja act?"

"Wynn briefed us this morning," Ray says, indicating himself and Hasser, who is standing at the open driver's side door. "This is all fucked up. Anyone that would want to kill the VP like that is messed up in the head, dude. Like, Ted Bundy, Ted Kaczynski levels of messed up."

"That seems to be common among pussy bitches who express a desire to assassinate public officials," Brad agrees. He glances towards the porch. Nate is chatting with Rudy.

"He should show his face soon so we can fuck it up for him, real good," Ray opines. Brad doesn't disagree with this. "You know, I've been on detail for a shitload of people since I started this job. And not one of them has been the same sort of stand-up guy the Vice President is." He sounds uncharacteristically serious.

"I believe it." He claps Ray on the arm. "See you on Monday."

"Bright and early," Ray sing-songs, and gets back into the car.

Brad turns to go up into the house, dodging Rudy's mock swing and feigning a blow to his jaw before going inside. He locks the door, then does his normal tour of the house, checking things as he goes. He notes that Nate is moving around in the study, and makes that room his final stop.

"Everything secure, Sergeant?" Nate asks dryly, as Brad thumbs the lock on the window.

"I would be very worried if it wasn't, sir, since no one's supposed to be in the house when you're not."

"Sit."

Brad doesn't. "Don't you want something to eat?" he asks, and from the look on Nate's face, he figures that Nate has forgotten all about food again. "How about you sit, and I'll find something. I signed for the grocery delivery on Tuesday so I know there's more than bread and that bag of Fritos you tried to hide."

Nate groans. "Oh my God, you are my mother."

"No, I'm just Jewish," Brad calls over his shoulder as he leaves the room, and hears Nate laugh behind him. He clicks his radio as he goes downstairs into the kitchen. "Rudy, you want a sandwich?"

"Anything would be great, brother," Rudy answers.

Brad makes three passable sandwiches, and hands one off to Rudy, who's taken up watch in the sun porch. The temperature had dropped suddenly and unexpectedly tonight. Then he takes the remaining two to the study, only to find that Nate's no longer there.

Brad finds him in the barely-used living room, a misnomer if there ever was one, sprawled on the couch watching CNN. "Here," he says, pressing the plate into Nate's hands, then strips off his kevlar and sits down next to him. On-screen, analysts are discussing Iran. "You know, my deep-sea diving skills are of no use in the middle of a desert."

"You'd go?"

"I would." It's not even a question. Brad goes where he's told. "If those were my orders, of course."

Nate takes a bite of his sandwich. "Am I right to assume you'll stay in the Corps until you can no longer perform?"

"That's been my intention, yes." Brad bites into his own sandwich, teeth crunching through the cool lettuce. He glances over at Nate. After a moment, he asks, "Why? You don't agree?"

"On the contrary, it seems to me like you've never wanted to do anything else. It must be fucking weird to get pulled from Pendleton and thrust into this bizarre clusterfuck."

"I'd hardly call you a clusterfuck, sir," Brad replies, voice dry. "And yes, it does take some getting used to, not having my favorite M-4 with me at all times."

"At least you've got a sidearm." Nate sounds petulant.

Brad smirks at him. "You could have one, too. It would be very Teddy Roosevelt of you."

Nate groans. "I can only imagine what the American voting public would say to their elected official being armed."

"I'd think your desire for self-protection would be understandable, especially if word got out that there's some crazy fucking bastard who wants to kill you." Brad picks up the other half of his sandwich.

Nate rolls his eyes, chewing. "To you and I, maybe," he says finally. "You know it's been three years since I last fired a gun? On the range, I mean. Since before the election."

Brad thinks for a second. He doesn't think Wynn would be opposed to Nate getting in a little target practice. If worst came to worst, they could arm him with one of the two that Brad always carries. "I'm sure Mike would let you use the range that they like to pretend isn't in the basement of the Secret Service building. Can I have the remote?"

"Set it up for me." Nate tosses the remote into his lap. "Tired of CNN?"

"It's all that's ever on in this fucking town. That and C-SPAN."

He finishes his sandwich before aiming the remote at the television and starting to flip channels. FOX News has made a splashy graphic to go with their latest update on Iran; Brad wonders how much money they spend on that shit. Nate's knee knocks into his. "Pick something, would you? The first time I've turned this thing on in weeks, and you're just fucking flipping."

"Christ, you complain a lot," Brad mutters, kicking at Nate's foot. "Are you sure you're not really a preschooler?"

Nate kicks back. Brad glares at him, suppressing the urge to lean over and kiss the smirk right off Nate's mouth. He's sure he dreamed about doing just that last night, while he slept in Nate's guest bedroom, dreamed about licking into Nate's mouth and Nate _letting_ him.

He snaps his gaze back to whatever's on Comedy Central.

Nate finishes his sandwich, apparently oblivious to the internal war Brad's waging. He slumps back into the couch cushions, and then sideways into Brad's shoulder.

Brad swallows. "Tired, sir?"

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Nate?" He moves again, impatiently, like he can't get comfortable.

"Just lie down, if you want to," Brad says.

Nate does, kicking his feet up over the arm of the couch, opposite of the way Brad expects him to go. "Sometimes I still wonder how I got here," he murmurs, as his head lands on Brad's thigh.

"I didn't think laying down on a couch required _quite_ so much thought, sir." Brad stays upright, not entirely sure what to do with his hands. One of them wants to drift to Nate's short hair, but Brad's going to keep himself in check here. Prior inappropriate touching of the VP under stressful circumstances might have gone without comment, but he doesn't think he can get away with stroking Nate's hair.

Nate drops his hand to smack Brad's leg, something Brad's sure he deserves. "My political career has been both the envy and the satisfaction of so many people here - they think I didn't pay my dues, but once I'm done here, I'm done. Vice presidents run for president, or they retire. I'm barely even _forty_."

"Fuck 'em," Brad replies. "And wait, don't you want to run for president?"

"I honestly don't know. I thought I did."

Nate's staring up at the ceiling. Brad looks down and catches his gaze. "Really?"

"I'm no Ferrando. I've learned that much."

Now doesn't seem a good time for a response that's snappy, or witty, so instead Brad says, "You know, tomorrow's Saturday. Do you golf?"

"What politician doesn't?"

Brad wiggles his leg a little, on purpose. "Let me rephrase: do you enjoy golfing?"

"Yes. And I enjoy it more when I'm not being wooed by lobbyists." Nate grins up at him. "Thankfully, that problem has faded away. It's been replaced by the problem of having an entire Secret Service team trail me all over the course. Even at the extremely exclusive country club in Maryland where I am a member."

"It might be your last chance to go before the weather completely turns. I'm sure they can find a tee time for the Vice President tomorrow morning," Brad says. "Although there is the small problem of how I don't have clubs here."

"Oh, you're golfing too?" Nate asks, his face perfectly blank. "I thought you were just going to walk with me, maybe say a few choice words about my backswing."

Oh, it's _on_. Trust Nate to try and turn the tables on him like that, when it had been Brad's idea. "Not only am I golfing, Nate, but I am beating your ass by at least five strokes."

Nate yawns in reply.

"I am very tempted to shove you off this couch right now," Brad says, putting one hand on Nate's shoulder and the other on his ribcage, as if he's preparing to do just that.

"Now who's cranky?" There's a definite smirk pulling at Nate's mouth. Then he sits up, only to slump back against Brad's side. He waves a hand at the television. "What the fuck is this?"

"I - am not entirely sure," Brad says slowly, tilting his head at the screen. It's some screwball animated thing and they seem to have missed the beginning. "It sure as fuck isn't _South Park_."

Nate laughs, the sound and movement vibrating into Brad. Nine at night on a Friday, and he's watching television with the VP and making plans to go golfing. He hasn't golfed in more than a year; he'd much rather surf, but he's not going to try that in the Potomac.

The remote is pulled from his hand. Nate settles against him a little more and finds the History Channel. With a sigh, Brad abandons his resolve to not move, and leans against Nate.

It feels really fucking domestic. It also feels really fucking foreign, after years of avoiding these sorts of situations. He should definitely not get used to it. "Nate?" he ventures, finally.

Nate yawns again. "Shut up and watch the documentary, Colbert."

Brad does.

*

On Monday, Brad returns from an afternoon briefing with Wynn about Chile (weeks have passed and no one has claimed responsibility for the shooting) to find the EEOB in full panic mode. He can see across the room that Nate's office door is shut. That's immediate cause for concern; Nate's door is never shut. Brad catches one of the aides with a hand on her elbow, since Ray is too far away and he needs to know _right now_. "What's going on?"

She's younger than they are, in her late twenties, and her blouse under his fingertips feels expensive. She looks at him with wide eyes that are brimming with tears, but her breath barely wavers as she says, "It's Senator Welsh, he had a heart attack just a few hours ago."

Brad's met Welsh, and knows he's been a friend and mentor to Nate since his Senate days. He's been to the residence, and he and Nate will often sit in the study late into the night, discussing whatever the current crises are.

"And?" Brad urges the aide.

"He's passed away." She glances at Nate's closed door. "Sgt. Colbert, I've never seen the Vice President so upset."

"Thank you, Gia." Brad's already walking away as he says it. He has no doubt that Nate is taking this hard. He knocks gently on the door with one hand, his other pressed with a flat palm to the wood. "Sir? May I come in?"

The door opens a few inches. He slips inside, closing it quietly behind him. Nate is sinking down onto the small loveseat along the back wall, where Brad is assuming he's already spent quite some time. He sits down next to Nate and places a light hand on his knee, but doesn't say anything. The shades are drawn, and in the dim light, he can see the clenched fist that Nate is pressing hard against his mouth. Brad looks down at his own feet, listens to Nate breathe, and waits.

After ten minutes, Nate drops his hand on top of Brad's, and Brad turns it over, winding their fingers together, and squeezes. "I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't... let's not talk." Nate's voice sounds raw and Brad sees him swallow.

He nods, squeezing Nate's hand again. Nate's fingers tighten on his in return, and for another fifteen minutes, they stay like that. Then Nate's grip loosens and he slowly draws his hand away, reaching up to straighten his tie before getting to his feet. Brad wants to pull him down again, wrap his arms around Nate, but instead, he stands up as well.

"I should make a few phone calls," Nate says.

"Want me to leave?"

"No, stay."

Nate sits down behind the desk and starts making calls. Brad takes out his phone and checks his email. There's nothing much, a few messages from the guys in his platoon, filling him in on what he's missing. Then he pulls up the New York Times and skims the headlines. There's an article on Welsh's passing - brief details about his death and a summary of his time in politics. _Mr. Welsh was also a respected mentor to many new Senate arrivals, including current Vice President Nathaniel Fick. Mr. Fick said of him in a 2008 interview, "Harry was the best thing that could have happened to this junior Senator from Maryland. He's never one to shy away from sharing both his knowlege and his opinion of how things work here in our great nation's capitol, and his friendship has been invaluable to me."_

Brad glances up at Nate, who is gripping the handset with white-knuckled fingers and murmuring condolences, most likely to Welsh's wife. Then he sends a text to Nate's cell - _going back to res. will have food &drink. you will eat. no q's._ \- and waits for him to pick it up off the desk and read the message. He watches Nate's mouth twist, and then Nate nods.

He leaves the office, gives Ray a heads-up, and drives himself back to the residence. His phone beeps with an incoming text on the way. It's from Nate. _be there in a couple hours. thanks for looking out for me._

Brad wants to reply that he's just doing his job, but he's starting to realize that this - whatever it is, whatever it will be - is much more complicated than that. And rather than say something he shouldn't, he doesn't say anything at all.

The funeral is planned for the following Tuesday, three days before Christmas. Tricia flies in from Virginia for the service and Brad spends an agonizing afternoon watching her try to comfort a closed-off Nate who, despite the news cameras, stares straight ahead and barely responds to her touch.

It's not until he's gone back to his empty hotel room that Brad realizes he's been clenching his hands into fists the entire day, and there are little red half-moons pressed into his palms. He takes the hottest shower he can stand, then lies naked and cooling on the bed. He's waiting for his phone to ring, waiting for an epiphany. Waiting for something, anything, but there's nothing.

*

It's late January when the letter with a more serious, pinpointed threat arrives. Brad has been Nate's shadow for nearly six months now, and this is the harshest one yet. Wynn's team opens all of Nate's mail, and Brad is escorting Nate to Senator Lewis's office when Wynn appears, trailed by two younger agents, and motions for Brad to come close.

Brad sees Nate into the office, then heads towards Wynn. "What is it, Gunny?"

"Sniper threat."

"Shit." The Senate is in session this week; it's no secret where Nate will be. Brad fucking hates snipers. "This fucker ever say why he's got it in for the VP?"

"You know some people don't care much for competent politicians," Wynn replies with a flicker of a grin, and Brad knows it's the best answer he's going to get until he can read the threat himself. "When he's done here, get him into the car, and bring him to the White House. Godfather will be waiting."

 _Fuck_. Brad knows where this is going. Nate isn't going to want additional security; the President is going to insist upon it, give some moto speech about why Nate should accept yet more guys watching his ass. Something in Brad bristles at that idea. He wonders if the President knows of Wynn's theory that some of the information is coming from inside, then shrugs it off. The President has to know.

Two hours later, Nate emerges from the office, and Brad runs him out to the car. "White House, Christopher," he tells the Corporal, then turns his attention to Nate. "Sniper threat, sir."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Nate groans, sinking down in the seat.

"The President has requested you join him."

Nate puts his hands over his face. Brad blinks at him in what he thinks feels like despair. He's not sure, he's never experienced despair before now, but he's really fucking worried about what he'll see in Nate's face when he drops his hands.

But Nate's expression is perfectly composed. "I guess I'm not doing my job if there isn't someone out there who wants to kill me," he says.

"Excuse my presumption, sir, but that sounds more like something the President should be saying," Brad replies, and regrets it the moment he sees Nate's wince.

"Chess tonight, Sgt. Colbert."

That's more familiar ground. "You bet, sir."

Inside the White House, Brad moves to stand outside the Oval Office, but Wynn waves him inside. "Come on, Colbert, you should be in here too," Brad hears the President say.

"Yes, sir." He slips inside and closes the door.

Nate is seated on one of the couches, his back ramrod straight. Brad can't see his face. The President is leaning against his desk, an unlit cigar in his mouth, looking unhappy. "All right, Mike, let's have it."

"This guy is serious, Mr. President. He provided a complete rundown of the Vice President's day, for several days in a row."

"Any idiot with a pair of fucking binoculars could do that," Ferrando replies.

"He also stated that when the shot comes, he'll be gone before we can tell where it came from. I quote, 'your Marine guards won't even know'. He knows the Vice President is surrounded by people who know their shit, sir, and he thinks he's better than us."

Ferrando frowns around the cigar. "Step it up."

"Colonel, I don't want that," Nate says.

"Nate-"

"No. If this guy is as good as he wants us to think he is, more protection isn't going to help and I'm fucked anyway. And if he's not as good as he thinks he is, it's only going to result in more people getting hurt. I won't have him take down a half-dozen agents trying to get to me. I'm not giving in to some fucking nutcase."

Brad really doesn't like the fact that he can't see Nate's face. The set of his shoulders is so stiff it looks painful, and his voice is clipped. It's past ten, and Brad knows Nate has been up since three-thirty, reading policy opinions regarding the environmental controls bill that's being written. And this is Washington, where there are beds and restaurants and other civilized comforts, not a goddamned war zone.

"No more," Nate tells the President. Brad thinks he'd rather have a war zone than this.

Ferrando looks at Nate for a long moment, then glances up at Brad. "All right. For now. Dismissed. Except for you, Mike."

"One second, sir. Brad?" Brad meets Wynn's gaze. "Hundred percent."

Like Brad hasn't been doing that for weeks. "Aye-aye, Gunny."

Even though they're in a gated area, Brad stays close to Nate on the way out. In the car, he watches the shadows underneath Nate's eyes, watches the clench of his fists against his thighs, watches him fight not to give in to his temper and the rage creeping up towards the surface. Brad doesn't say anything, just waits.

It's a testament to how out of sorts Nate is that he doesn't argue when Brad nearly shoves him through the front door, saying, "No chess tonight. Change your clothes, sir, and meet me in the gym. You've got two minutes."

Ninety seconds later, he's pointing Nate towards the treadmill. "Run it out."

Nate doesn't argue with that either, and starts the machine. Brad slips out of his suit jacket, takes off his vest, undoes his tie, and unbuttons his dress shirt. He lays all of it over the weight bench. For twenty minutes, he warms up on the punching bag, keeping one eye on Nate as he jogs, then alternates between push-ups and crunches for another twenty minutes.

"Brad," Nate begins at one point, but Brad shakes his head.

"Keep going, sir."

Nate huffs and keeps running. Brad goes back to the bag.

After an hour, he sees Nate start to tire. His head droops and sweat drips off his face, but he keeps going. Brad finishes his set of push-ups, then stands. "I'm going to slow it so you can cool down," he says, quickly changing the program on the treadmill, and then tossing Nate a towel to wipe his face. "Feel better?"

"Feel like I'm going to fall over," Nate says, and Brad can hear the shake in his breath that he knows Nate is struggling to control. The treadmill's speed continues to slow until it comes to a complete stop, and Nate steps off the side, pressing the towel to his face and breathing heavily for a while.

Brad gives the bag a few more lazy punches as Nate turns and opens the mini-fridge, then catches the bottle of water Nate tosses in his direction. The crinkling of the plastic bottles as they drink is the only sound for several minutes, until Brad sets his aside and starts nudging Nate towards the stairs. "C'mon, sir, you smell."

Nate grins tiredly and sniffs. "You can't talk, Colbert. Besides, there's no one here to smell me but you."

"My perfume doesn't immediately invoke forty days in the desert with no facilities," Brad replies. "Is Tricia gone again?"

She'd been here this morning when they'd left, but maybe her bag had been by the door. He sees Nate roll his eyes and follows him up the stairs to the second floor of the house. "She went to her parents'," Nate says, finally answering. "Everything that's happening, all these threats – she's having a hard time."

Brad makes a mental note to check in with Tricia's agent once he's got Nate squared away. "Understandable," he says in reply, keeping his voice neutral. He'd always had a feeling that if the shit really hit the fan, Tricia wouldn't stick around. She's nice enough, and smart, but Brad knows the kind of person that stays with someone when their life is being threatened, and Tricia's not that kind of person.

Once they're upstairs, instead of taking off his sweaty t-shirt and shorts and getting into the shower like Brad wants him to do, Nate slumps against the bathroom doorway and closes his eyes.

"Sir?" Brad asks. When there's no reply, he says, softer, "Nate?"

Nate straightens up and pulls his shirt over his head. "I don't think Tricia's going to come back." He walks into the bathroom and turns on the showerhead, fiddling with the knobs for a moment. Brad knows he prefers lukewarm showers after the treadmill. He's not sure when he picked up that information.

"I'm sorry." He leans against the bedroom wall, not looking as Nate kicks off his shorts and steps under the spray.

"It is what it is," Nate says over the sound of the water, "and I'd rather she's away from all of this, anyway. Even if it means we're through. I think I've changed too much for her to keep up, anyway." There's a pause, then, "You should wash up, Brad, if you want."

Brad gets a cloth from the linen closet - he knows where every single thing is in this house; he has to, because something grossly out of place could mean someone uninvited has been inside, or worse, is still inside - and washes up briskly in the bathroom sink. He can hear Nate hum for a few seconds, but aside from that, it's quiet. That's unlike Nate, who totally doesn't care about bellowing ridiculous Top 40 songs in the morning while Brad stands outside the bedroom door, waiting to hand him the agenda for the day.

He's patting his face and arms dry when the shower stops, and he tosses Nate a towel. "Do you think you can sleep?"

Nate looks at him shrewdly. Brad returns the look, with interest. "If you're a mess tomorrow, the President is going to hold me personally responsible," he adds, his voice serious.

"I'm a fucking mess right now, Brad," Nate sighs, rubbing the towel over his head. "And it's not your job to fix me."

That is precisely Brad's job. "Sir, do you trust me?"

"What, Sergeant Colbert?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Every second of every day," Nate says quietly. He wraps the towel around his waist and drops his hands to his sides, and Brad can't help it, he wants to shove Nate onto a plane and fly them somewhere with crystal-clear beaches, bottle after bottle of Corona, and sun so warm it melts this goddamned depressing D.C. winter right out of Nate's bones. Someplace no murderer can reach him.

But he can't.

"Go lay on the bed and wait for me," he instructs. "I'm going to check in with Poke and Rudy. I'll be back in five mikes. If you think you don't need someone to touch you, or if you don't want it to be me, you can lock me out. But I don't think you should."

He goes downstairs to the kitchen, checking locked windows along the way, and opens the back door. Rudy is there, a few feet away, in his NVGs. "Reyes," Brad says, "all good?"

"We're good, my brother. It's quiet. Poke's got the front covered."

"Everything's secure in here. The Vice President's going to sleep."

"Roger that."

Brad shuts the door, locks it, checks it, and checks it again. He retrieves his clothes from the gym. Then he makes sure the garage and the front doors are secure, and goes back upstairs. The bedroom door is partially open. He's not surprised. He'd issued a challenge, and Nate doesn't back away from challenges. Even ones meant to make him let go.

He nudges the door open enough that he can slip through, then shuts and locks it. Nate is laying on the bed in a pair of boxers, face-down, and in the lean lines of his back, Brad reads nothing but stress. "I'm back, sir," he announces unnecessarily.

"Rudy and Tony okay?"

Trust Nate to ask. "They're fine." Brad sets down his clothes, then walks over to the bed and stands next to it. "You need to relax enough to sleep, Nate," he murmurs. "You're going to be a fucking mess tomorrow if you don't get at least a few hours."

"And what, you're going to read me a bedtime story?"

"Never said that." He straddles Nate, one knee on either side of Nate's hips, and feels him tense. "You're wound tighter than a goddamned clock. You know what stress does to a person? It makes them sick, sir. Like how we're told not to clutch the steering wheel in an accident - tensing up before the crash just makes you hurt a fuck of a lot worse afterward. You can't afford it."

"Comforting," Nate mumbles, dry.

"You gotta let go," Brad says, unwinding his plain black tie from around his fist. He leans forward and gathers Nate's wrists. "Let me do this," he whispers as Nate tenses again, muscles preparing to buck him off. He needs to tell Nate what his plan is, and does. "I'm going to bind your hands, and then I'm going to rub those knots out of your back, okay? Let go, Nate, and let me do this for you."

He knows it's only a few seconds, but it feels like hours drag by before Nate sucks in a deep breath and goes somewhat limp underneath him. Brad binds his wrists together, not so tightly that one good pull won't defeat the knot. It's not meant to be anything more than a symbolic gesture that Brad is in control of this, right now. Gently, he turns Nate's head on the pillow so that he's not smothering himself, and lowers Nate's arms above his head. "Keep them there," he instructs.

Then he digs his fingers into the hard muscles of Nate's shoulders and hears Nate groan. "Fine," Nate says, a bit muffled, "you win. Brad Colbert wins again. Brad: four-fucking-hundred and change, Nate: zero."

"C'mon, sir, you gotta give yourself at least a few points." Brad's proud of his conversational tone as he works his hands down Nate's back, seeking out all the knots and rubbing, kneading, and stroking until they disappear. "You kept up with Godfather good tonight, all that fucking hoo-hah about not giving in to this madman and not wanting a bigger security force and all that shit. And it was shit, sir, if I may, a whole load of it."

"If you had your way, my house would be surrounded by armed Marines."

"Bet your ass it would." Brad pushes his thumbs into the small of Nate's back, on either side of his spine, and a ragged noise escapes Nate's mouth. Brad tries not to think about how he'd like to hear that noise again, or how the blood is rushing to his groin. Or how he might be fucking everything up by doing this. "Bet some of them would volunteer. Personal acquaintances and all that. Yours and mine."

Nate doesn't answer, just sighs. Brad works his way back up to Nate's neck, stroking firmly with his fingertips. It's working, but it's not enough. He can still feel the tension in Nate's thighs underneath his own. Brad wants to see him so loose he sags into the mattress, unable to move, so relaxed he falls asleep between one breath and the next.

He makes up his mind.

He leans over, mouth close to Nate's ear. "I'm changing the ROE. I'm going to touch you, sir. My hand on your cock. That's all. I'm gonna jerk you off, so that your brain shuts off long enough for you to fall asleep. And then I will be right here while you sleep. No one is going to get to you while I'm in the room."

Nate makes a choked noise, but he doesn't move to stop Brad as Brad slides a hand underneath him, under the waistband of his shorts. "I'm tired of people wanting to kill me," he whispers, and he sounds so small and exhausted that all Brad can think to do is move off of him, roll them both sideways a little, and spoon up as close as possible behind Nate as he licks his palm, then wraps his hand around Nate's stiffening cock.

Nate's wrists are still tied, but that's good, it means Nate really can't try to help or to push Brad's hand away. "You're not going to freak out on me, are you?" Brad whispers in his ear, and Nate's response is to roll his hips, pushing his cock into Brad's fist. "Good."

He jerks Nate hard and fast, figuring what works for him will also work for Nate. It's a battle not to lean forward even more and press his face to the muscled line of Nate's shoulder, the clean smell of soap and something Brad will always identify as simply Nate waging a war with his senses. But he refrains. This isn't about him.

Nate makes a low, choked noise as Brad swipes a thumb over the head of his cock. He brings his mouth to Nate's ear again. "You can be loud, sir; we're the only people in the house."

He speeds his hand and Nate groans. "When we're in bed together, you call me by my name," Nate gasps out, "none of this 'sir' bullshit, Brad."

"Yes, Nate." Fingers find the crown of his head and press downward, urging Brad somewhere, the best Nate can do while bound. "What? Tell me what it is you want."

Nate shudders and twists in his arms. "Touch - touch my neck."

"You get off on it?" Suddenly, Nate's refusal to let him remove the tie in Chile makes sense. "Ah, I understand."

He rubs his cheek lightly against the side of Nate's neck, skims his lips over the pulse there. He wants to open his mouth to the skin and suck, but that's too risky. Nate's whole body goes rigid as he comes, colliding forcefully with Brad's even as Brad keeps stroking him through it. Then he wipes his hand on Nate's shorts and undoes the tie, rubs Nate's shoulders as he brings his arms down. "You okay?" he asks, squeezing Nate's bicep.

Nate yawns; Brad feels vindicated. It's the answer he was aiming for. "What about you?" Nate asks.

"I'm good." He knows what Nate's asking. "Nothing I can't take care of later. You should sleep, all right? If you fall asleep right now, you can get six whole hours before it's time to start all over again."

Nate nods, already tugging at the blankets and settling the pillow underneath his head. Brad slides out of the bed, trying not to wince at his aching erection. Nate catches his wrist. "Brad."

"Nate?"

"I want you to jack yourself with the same hand you just used on me. Go do it now. Then come back here and get into bed. You need a couple hours of sleep, too."

Brad swallows, palming himself through his slacks. "Yes, sir."

He does just that. It takes him only a few strokes, the scent of Nate still on his skin, and he lets himself moan out loud as he comes so that Nate can hear it. Then he washes up, hangs his pants on the back of the bathroom door, and goes back into the bedroom. For a moment he hesitates, but Nate must know it, because he mumbles, "Get in the goddamned bed," and so Brad does.

*

He wakes up first the next morning, while it's still dark and silent. He starts to slide out from between the sheets, but Nate's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. Hard. "Yes?" Brad asks.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Somewhere where I won't get caught in bed with the Vice President."

"The door's locked."

"So?"

Nate groans. "You sleep on the motherfucking floor all the time. Come here." He pulls, and Brad lets himself be pulled. He ends up facing the middle of the bed. It's a strange feeling, to know that he's looking at Nate, but not being able to see him for the darkness. "You can't change the ROE and not expect consequences," Nate says, his words muddled by a yawn. "We're not in a war zone."

This territory is unfamiliar. Brad goes for the simplest statement. "I needed you to be able to sleep."

"So you thought a handjob would be the best way to accomplish that. And don't tell me you were just making do. That was no combat jack."

 _Fuck._ It's honesty or nothing.

"Brad," Nate prompts, his voice low and dangerous, expecting an answer.

"I wanted to touch you."

The hand around his wrist lets go. "You can."

"Excuse me?"

"But only when we're alone."

Like _that's_ not obvious. But Brad's mind is still stuck on Nate suddenly saying yes. "So if I did this..." He slides a hand along Nate's ribcage.

"I'm giving you permission," Nate breathes, and Brad can feel his chest rise and fall beneath his palm.

The alarm goes off then. Brad rolls away from Nate and out of the bed. "Coffee and toast?"

Instead of bickering about it, or calling Brad a babysitter yet again, Nate just says, "If you don't mind."

Brad gets his pants from the bathroom and goes to start the coffee. As he measures out grounds, his cell phone starts to ring. "Colbert."

"Brad, it's Mike Wynn. Could you make it down to the office today, as soon as possible?"

He thinks about Nate upstairs, possibly still naked. "Of course."

"There's something I need to show you. Catch a ride in with Reyes and Espera when the boys show up, they're leaving here now. I'm sending Person, Hasser and Graves today, so at least our numbers will be the same while you're in briefing."

Brad acknowledges this, then hangs up. He looks at the coffee machine for a moment, then decides not to wait for it, and uses the barely-touched automatic espresso machine while waiting for the toast.

"You making me a cappuchino like a girl, Colbert?" Nate asks, pushing through the swinging doors. He's dressed, except for the untied tie hanging around his neck. Green today, matching his eyes. Brad knows better now than to offer to do it up for him. Or rather, he knows now is not the time to offer.

"Yes, with a heart hand-drawn in the foam," Brad says dryly, and points to the distinctly un-girly espresso he'd just poured. "There's yours. And the toast isn't done, but I just got off the phone with Wynn and your ride should be here shortly, so I should hurry the fuck up and get dressed."

Nate takes a sip of his coffee, raising an eyebrow in Brad's direction. "My ride?"

"I'm going back with Rudy; Wynn wants me at the office for something." Brad blows across the dark surface of his cup several times, then drinks the whole thing down. He sets the cup in the sink. "I'll be back before you know it, sir," he says, squeezing Nate's shoulder on his way out of the room.

"You better be," Nate calls after him. Brad grins all the way upstairs. He's showered and dressed in five minutes flat, despite using Nate's shower - it smells like Nate, and it takes a conscious effort not to wrap a hand around his cock and jerk off. He'll wait.

By the time he's back downstairs, the car has arrived for Nate. Brad gets into the parked Ford with Espera, Rudy sliding in behind the wheel, and they drive to the building on Murray. "Do you know what's going on?" Brad asks, remembering to clip his ID onto his suit jacket as they walk into the building.

Rudy swipes his ID over the sensor. "Unknown, my man. Maybe something to do with the threat we got yesterday. This guy's fucking crazy."

"You're telling me."

Brad is shown in to Wynn's office, where a rifle case is laying open on the desk. "It came in the mail," Wynn says, shaking his head.

"Wait, what? The rifle - in the mail?"

"From our guy."

Brad feels his jaw drop. It's a Century Arms C15A1, with a Sig Sauer Mini-Red Dot sight. "The hell kind of assassin can afford to send a rifle as a taunt?" he asks.

"A crazy rich kind," Wynn replies. "Or maybe the kind who doesn't pay their taxes and doesn't buy anything but necessities, saving up so that they can afford a stunt like this. There was a note, too."

He hands Brad a plastic bag, inside of which is a piece of paper. _I will kill him with one like this._ Brad finds he's reluctant to touch it, even enclosed. "How do you know it's the same guy?"

"Handwriting matches the past threats."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Brad mutters. A head shot from this sort of rifle would be a kill shot, and a messy one at that. He feels nauseous at the thought of this guy's scope dialing in on Nate. Anger spikes through him and he throws the letter down onto the desk. "Fuck!"

"It's fucked up," Wynn agrees.

"Does he ever say _why_?" Brad asks, looking directly at Wynn, who shakes his head.

"You're thinking like these folks are rational human beings, with reasons for their actions, however incorrect their reasons may be. There's no justification here. To a guy like this, it's all war. And he's decided Fick is his enemy."

 _No rules._ Brad wants to find this asshole and put a bullet through his brain. Or several. But he can't, because the guy's in the wind. He's not planning on showing his face, not if a gun like this is his plan. "Am I supposed to feel helpless?" he asks Wynn.

"That's how he wants us to feel. But I have an entire team tracing this gun, right now. This is his fuck-up, Brad."

"Unless he's going to make his move in the next few days, before you can finish the damned trace."

"It's possible," Wynn admits, "but you know we can't tell for certain what his plans are from a few notes and a rifle."

"Anything could happen," Brad sighs. He rubs a hand over his head.

Wynn closes the rifle case carefully, then sits down behind the desk, frowning. "If I had to guess, I'd say he enjoys the ulcer he's giving me. Enjoys making us paranoid every minute of every day."

"Enjoys making Nate constantly fear for his life."

Wynn nods. "Yeah. Yeah, that for sure."

There is silence for a moment; Brad more focused on the cold anger in his belly than continuing the conversation. Then Wynn picks up his phone. "You should get back to Fick. I'll have someone drive you to the EEOB."

 

*

He doesn't know when the engagement officially dissolves, but all of Tricia's things disappear from the residence. She returns the diamond via courier. Brad knows because he signs for it one night while Nate is in the shower. He's unsure about whether or not to bring it up to Nate, and so leaves it on the foyer table. Then he goes outside to walk the grounds with Reyes. It's bitter February cold. Brad pulls his coat tight around himself and they don't speak.

Nate is in a towel, still damp, packing a suitcase for Iowa when Brad knocks on the open door. "You think I need more than one sweater?"

"Des Moines is generally below zero this month."

"More than one, then."

"You're coming back tomorrow night."

In response, Nate folds two dark sweaters into his suitcase and closes it.

"Got your speech?" Brad asks.

"All set." It's a fundraiser for one of the Democratic senators, someone that Brad knows Nate to be on comfortable terms with. Nate tends to stay away from speaking engagements while the Senate is in session, and he has to be back in the office on Monday.

"I'm gonna go check in with Rudy before we turn in, then."

Nate tugs on the towel draped around his neck. "Brad."

"Yeah?"

"What are we doing?"

They haven't addressed the conversation from the other morning, when Nate gave him permission to touch. Brad looks at him, naked except for the towel, all damp, flushed skin and an expression that seems hesitant. He wants to touch, and badly. "Whatever you want to do," he replies, pausing in the doorway, "I mean it, Nate."

He keys up the radio as he goes down the stairs. "Rudy, I'm coming out."

"Copy that."

Rudy's on the porch with a thermos of something that could be coffee, but could also be some other organic concoction of his invention. Brad shuts the door quickly, not wanting any of the warmth to escape. "You want to come in and unfreeze for a few?"

"No, man, I'm all good right now. I got this new hat and gloves. Best purchase I've made all year." Rudy continues on about the fibers in the hat for a moment, then gives him a wide grin over the lip of the thermos. "VP beating you at the chessboard still?"

"I'll have you know I've improved my game considerably since he kicked my ass that first time."

Rudy just shakes his head. "That don't mean you're winning, brother. Iowa tomorrow?"

"Iowa tomorrow. I'm going to get some sleep, so I'll be unplugged from the matrix for a few hours."

Rudy lifts his thermos in salute. Brad goes back inside, but stops a few steps in. Nate's standing in the foyer with the ring box in one hand. "Nate?"

"I feel bad," Nate murmurs.

"Why?"

"I'd say she didn't ask for all this, but she knew from the beginning what I wanted her for. It just proved to be too much." His eyes snap to Brad's for a second, then his head drops and he sighs. " _Shit_."

Brad steps in, takes the box from Nate's hand, puts it back on the table. "Come on," he says quietly, grasping Nate's arm and pulling him up the stairs towards the guest bedroom that Brad's been sleeping in.

Nate comes to a dead stop on the mid-level landing. "I'm going to tell Stephen to find another candidate for the election," he says, his voice firm.

Brad stills. "You're _what_?" He can't even comprehend that.

"I don't want to run again."

"Why the fuck not?"

Nate continues up the stairs. Brad's still got a grip on his arm, and so he's pulled along for a few steps before he lets go. "If there's one thing I've learned in the last three years, it's that I don't want to be President," Nate says. He sounds tired. "I don't even want to be Vice President anymore."

Brad reaches for him again, gently tugging Nate close by a handful of his worn USMC t-shirt, bracing a hand on the wall above his shoulder. "And do what instead?"

"Georgetown would very much like me to lecture there." Nate holds his gaze. "Or I could go somewhere else."

"Somewhere else, hmm?"

"Yes."

He wants to ask more about Nate's decision, his curiosity warring with the arousal starting to hum through his body. "How about for now, we continue upstairs? Because there's a window right there, sir, and I don't plan on stripping you where someone could see."

Nate tugs him out of the way of the window, then arches up and kisses him, his mouth hot and perfect. Brad indulges for a brief moment, then urges Nate up the stairs. He steers them towards the guest room, curling his fingers in the waistband of Nate's pajamas bottoms as he walks Nate backwards down the hall.

"You're letting me participate this time, right?" Nate asks when they get to the door, and he reaches behind his back to turn the knob.

Brad pushes it open over Nate's shoulder. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" This is accompanied by a single lifted brow, so Brad leans forward to press a half-dozen kisses all over Nate's face.

"Really, you want out of Washington?" he whispers.

Nate's tone is dry. "The cherry blossoms have gotten old." Then he spins them around, shoving Brad into the room. "Can I tie you up this time?"

"Anything you want." He drags Nate closer and dips his head, opening his mouth against Nate's neck, feeling the contrast between stubble and smooth skin. Nate smells like soap, tastes like it too, and Brad drags his tongue over Nate's racing pulse.

Nate says his name, and his hands rise between them to free the buttons of Brad's shirt. He pushes it off Brad's shoulders and down his arms, where it gets caught at his wrists. Nate grins.

"Oh," Brad says, stupidly.

Nate walks them backwards, until Brad's legs thump against the edge of the mattress. Nate pushes on his shoulder and he sits down. Warmth pools in the pit of his stomach. Nate's gaze finds his. "Tell me right now about your previous experiences with other men."

"Mutual masturbation, but that's old news. Handjobs - received, not given, and less than I can count on one hand, absolutely no pun intended. Very sloppy, very drunken makeout session with a very, very pretty Australian boy in the back hallway of a bar that I wouldn't remember the name of even if you told it to me."

He feels Nate's hand curl around the back of his neck. "How pretty?"

"Your mouth is far superior."

Nate gives him a slow grin, unintentionally backing up Brad's statement. "You always say just what I want to hear."

"Simply stating the truth, sir."

"And state it simply you do." Nate drops to his knees and Brad, not expecting it, sucks in a sharp breath. "What about blowjobs?"

"Only my ex. Well, and whores."

"The whores were all women?"

Brad nods. Nate makes quick work of the fastenings on Brad's slacks, freeing his cock with warm fingers, and another wild spike of arousal courses through him at Nate's firm touch. He can feel his control slipping and curses under his breath, struggling to maintain his calm.

"Brad," Nate says sharply. Then, "Don't," like he knows what Brad is thinking.

Brad exhales in response.

"Let me," Nate whispers. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, then he opens his mouth and exhales right over the head, warm and damp.

Brad can't stop his shiver. "Nate," he breathes, "Nate, come on."

"Patience." With the word is another rush of warm breath and Brad bites at his bottom lip. His whores had never teased, not like this, not with something that feels like hesitancy. _Maybe he only thinks he should do this,_ a voice echoes in his head.

"You don't have to," he forces himself to say.

"I want to," Nate says, and drags his tongue up the side of Brad's cock. Then he weights an arm over Brad's hips and takes him in. It's wet and messy and minus the precision that Brad would have expected from Nate. A hand wraps around the base, slick with spit, and squeezes hard. But Brad's mind is still on _fuck, Nate's mouth is on my cock_ and he's not thinking about extras, so he can't stop his hips from trying to fly upward.

But Nate's holding him down with more force than he'd realized, and the sudden denial of his momentum means Brad slumps back onto the mattress with a groan. Nate hums in response, then lifts his head. "Sorry," he says roughly.

"What the fuck for?" Brad hisses. He yanks his hands free of the offending shirt and it rips but he doesn't care. He runs his fingers over Nate's scalp, down the side of his face. "You weren't fucking that up in any way, for sure."

A smile curves Nate's mouth. "When was the last time you had sex and didn't pay for it?" he asks, dropping his head to press kisses along the ridge of Brad's hipbone.

Brad flashes briefly to a girl he'd picked up in a bar - cotton summertime dress, hands that smelled like lime and mouth that tasted like tequila. "Six months, give or take."

Nate nuzzles against his cock. "Was it just the means to an end?"

"Yeah," he breathes, and Nate takes him in again, further this time, ceasing to be hesitant. Like a switch had been flipped inside of him. He sucks hard, rubbing his tongue along the crown, and Brad had thought all the blood in his body had already gone to his dick, but apparently he was _wrong_.

He wants to come down Nate's throat so bad that it's suddenly _all_ he wants, his pulse up to running speed even though he's barely moved. Nate squeezes his balls, presses a knuckle behind them, then another knuckle, and then Brad feels the third nudge his asshole.

He pushes Nate back, sucking in a huge lungful of air. "Stop or I'll come."

"That's a problem?"

"Get the fuck up here," he growls. Nate climbs on top of him without argument, and the thin, sensitive skin of his cock rubs against the rubs against the rougher skin of Nate's thigh.

"Was I doing that wrong?" Nate asks, half smirking and half serious, and Brad groans.

"That was great." The words are slightly distorted by the press of his mouth against Nate's jaw, tasting the skin there, salt and something artificial, bitter and chemical like aftershave lotion.

He gets a hand under Nate's knee where it's planted into the bed and tries to flip them, but Nate resists and they just end up sort of sideways. Brad blinks at him, feeling more than a little punch-drunk, possibly underwater, like he's not breathing actual air.

It's not the cool control he's used to.

"Nate, what," he manages.

Nate bites at the curve of his neck, and not lightly. Then he reaches back, off the bed, and Brad watches the muscles in his chest as he gropes for something. He comes back with a silk tie of Brad's that is exact green of his eyes, and a wicked look on his face. "You'll let me do this." It's not exactly a question.

Brad nods, and Nate ties one of his hands to the post of the bed.

"I should do to you what you did to me," Nate says, grinning. "Jerk you off and not let you touch, or reciprocate, or even fucking move."

Something in the way he says it makes Brad's vision white out for a second. He exhales loudly. _Oh._

"Yeah, I should," Nate repeats. Brad growls and grabs his wrist, but Nate doesn't acquiesce; he pushes his body against Brad's and they stay locked like that for a long minute, neither wanting to give in.

Then Brad relents.

He lies back on the bed, closes his eyes and lets Nate move over him. The heat that flares in his belly is sudden, and as intense as an oil fire. He can feel Nate's cock drag over the inside of his thigh, then against his own. Nate rubs against him, slowly, fingertips digging into Brad's hips. Friction, but not enough, and he rolls his hips, trying to arch up. But Nate's heavy and Brad's pinned. "Come on, Nate," he gasps, opening his eyes to see the curve of Nate's ear, the line of his jaw and neck, the angle of his shoulder.

"Let me," Nate breathes in his ear. "Close your eyes again."

He does. Nate slides against him, then Brad feels Nate's hand wrapping around both their dicks. He jerks them fast and hard, and Brad groans. "This isn't combat," he grinds out, as Nate pauses to rub his thumb over the head of Brad's cock, teasing at the slit. "Jesus, Nate."

"Shut up." He feels Nate's teeth on his shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but still sharp, and then Nate's hand starts moving again.

Brad spreads his legs wider, letting Nate drop down in between. He skims his palm down Nate's side, squeezes his ass. Nate says something incomprehensible against his neck, mouth moving against his skin, then, "Brad, fuck."

"Don't you dare come yet," Brad gasps.

Nate laughs and speeds his hand. Brad slaps his ass. "Kinky," Nate whispers. He's warm and damp with sweat, and Brad can feel where Nate's horseshoe necklace is dragging back and forth against his chest.

Nate's whole body jerks as he comes and Brad catches his mouth, swallowing his moans and kissing him through it, even as his own body is screaming for release, barreling towards the edge. It's been a long time since he cared about an orgasm besides his own, but he wants Nate to feel good, wants him to feel surrounded and held and taken and another half-dozen things that Brad can't quite name.

He can feel Nate's breath shaky against his face as Nate pulls back just a little, stripping Brad's cock, faster again, until his orgasm hits like a round to the chest, knocking him back as the room spins.

Then things right themselves once more and he opens his eyes. Nate reaches up and frees his wrist, dropping the tie back on the floor. "All right?" he asks.

"Yeah. There's some tissues in the nightstand drawer, I think."

Nate moves off of him, sticky skin sliding uncomfortably. He wipes off his own fingers and Brad's stomach, and Brad watches his hands move. Nate seems unsure what to do with the tissues when he's done, and finally just leaves them on the nightstand and lays back down, close.

"What are we doing?" he asks, his breath hot against Brad's shoulder. His fingers tangle in the chain of Brad's tags.

 _I don't know._ Because he doesn't. It's stupid and it's risky and fuck, when they catch the guy who wants to kill Nate, Brad will be going back to California. Even if they never catch the guy, he can't stay here forever. This is not what he'd expected to find coming here; hell, it's not even something he expected to find with anyone ever again.

"I'm just your ghost, Nate," he says finally. "That's all."

Nate squeezes Brad's knee where their legs are tangled together. "You feel pretty fucking solid to me."

"That's the problem," Brad sighs.

Nate doesn't reply, just pulls the sheet up over them. Brad traces his fingertips over Nate's collarbone, then turns his head and looks out the clear inch of window that the blinds aren't covering, watches the snow fall for a while. Tries to convince himself that he should unwind himself from Nate's warm body and find someplace else to sleep. But it feels too good, and Brad is tired of denying himself this particular pleasure, tired of channeling all his energy in other directions just to avoid the eventual hurt.

He feels like he's simply run out of road. And here, at the end of it, is Nate, who is jabbing him in the arm without any force and mumbling something about how Brad's not sleeping and he'd like to get at least an hour before getting up again, thanks.

"Sleep," Brad scoffs. "You've lost your killer edge." It comes out mostly a mumble, mangled by a yawn. They're both getting soft. He angles himself towards Nate a few degrees more, drags Nate's arm up over his waist, and falls asleep in seconds.

*

"Crazy, isn't it?" Nate asks from behind him, as Brad watches the line of people start to stream into the auditorium from the second-floor window.

"I didn't think there were this many people even living in Des Moines," he replies, glancing over his shoulder at Nate. "I guess you're popular."

"It's only my boyish good looks they've come to see."

Nate is wearing a well-fitted pair of black slacks and a forest-green sweater over a shirt a few shades lighter. It's as casual as Brad has ever seen him at a public event, dark and undeniably sexy, and he grins in response. "I won't argue with that."

Through the window, against the purpling sky, he can make out the snipers on various rooftops. An advance team has been here for three days, sweeping the building, vetting the staff, planning the motorcade route. Every corner they had passed was blocked off by a squad car. Wynn was taking absolutely no chances. The building had been declared clear three times already today, Brad knows.

He can almost feel the energy vibrating off Nate as the VP leans closer, looking down at the dwindling line of people, all of whom have registered and paid for the privilege of being here. Brad allows him a moment, then slides himself between Nate and the window. "Probably not the best idea, sir," he murmurs.

"Yeah, you're probably right about that." Nate steps away, lifting a hand towards his collar, but then he stops. "Strangely enough, I'm not used to not wearing a tie."

Brad would smirk at him, but there are other people in the room. "You look fine, and this isn't going to be on television, anyway."

"It's not? I would have sworn I saw cameras." Nate flashes a grin, sitting down on the provided sofa and crossing his legs, ankle over knee. His shoes are black and shiny.

"Local news at best."

"Your opinion of my popularity is obviously in decline."

"In complete free-fall, Mr. Vice President," Brad agrees. He crosses to the door as Wright sits down next to Nate, pages of the speech and a pen in hand.

Outside in the hall, he can more readily hear the low murmur of the crowd. He spies Walt, wielding a hand-held metal detector, coming towards him. "So far so good?" Brad asks hopefully.

"So far. Looks like we'll be starting on time," Walt says, just as their radios crackle and Ray's voice barks, "Code three! Code three!"

Brad nearly takes the door off its hinges, Walt and Rudy on his heels, and Nate stares at them with wide eyes for a split-second before police sirens start to wail. Brad's not sure if Nate jumps up himself or if they just grab him from the couch and move, it happens so fast. _Out, out, need to get out._ There's a swell of noise from the auditorium below as the room erupts into chaos. Brad narrows his focus to nothing more than the feel of Nate's sweater underneath his palm and _escape_.

Ray is yelling something about a bomb threat being called in the Des Moines police as Brad pushes open the emergency fire exit with his shoulder, his other arm still reaching back to hold on to Nate. In a tight cluster, they run down the metal steps of the fire escape, feet clanging on each one. _They swept this building three times today,_ he thinks, _there's no way anyone could have gotten an explosive inside_.

The limo shrieks to a halt a few yards away, Ray running up from the other direction and climbing into the passenger seat as Brad physically presses Nate into the back, leaving Walt and Rudy to jump into the next car that's coming up behind, and the swirl of police lights around their heads disappears into the dim interior of the limo.

Brad pulls the door shut behind them, sealing them inside the bulletproof car.

"Fuck," Nate gasps, still looking terrified yet laughing at the same time. "That was fucked."

"There's no goddamned bomb," Brad says, rolling his eyes even though his heart is still beating wildly in his chest. "Just some jerkoff who thought it would be funny to cause a panic."

"I think they succeeded." Nate turns in the seat, up on his knees and looking out the rear window. There are so many bright headlights and flashing red-and-blues surrounding the building that it could almost pass for daytime. Brad can still see his profile, and in all the light, Nate looks like he's just a kid.

 _I am inexplicably fond of him,_ Brad thinks. He reaches out and wraps a hand around Nate's shin.

Nate looks over his shoulder. "What?" he asks, grinning.

"Your adrenaline high will inevitably cease," Brad replies, and Nate turns back around, scowling as if Brad has just ruined his fun.

But before Brad can give in to impulse and kiss the look off his face, Nate says, "You know, we drove through Iraq in tin-plated Humvees with hardly any cover at all, and now I ride around in bulletproof cars with no less than two bodyguards at any time."

"And yet there's bombs here, too. Or the threat of them." There's a knock on the privacy divider. He slides it open. "Yes, Ray?"

"Mr. Vice President, Air Force Two is ready should you want to head back to D.C. tonight. Otherwise, we could secure the hotel." Brad can tell from the look on Ray's face that he's not keen on staying in hostile territory any longer than necessary.

"We can go home, Ray, thanks," Nate says. "You can sleep in your own bed tonight."

"Roger that, sir."

Brad slides the partition closed again.

"And you can sleep in _my_ bed," Nate murmurs, sliding his feet between Brad's.

Maybe it's not so inexplicable after all.

In the air, he settles down in a seat next to Ray as Nate goes into the stateroom. "So," Ray says cheerfully, typing away on his phone.

"Yes, Ray?"

"At least you didn't have to disarm that one."

Brad wishes futilely for a toothbrush and shrugs.

"Sergeant Colbert, can I pick your brain for a few minutes?" Nate calls.

"Yes, sir." He unfolds himself from the seat and goes through the door. The desk lamp is on, and Nate's tapping a pen on a sheet of paper. "Nate?" Brad says, softer.

"The sooner I write this and deliver it to Godfather, the better, both for him and for me."

Brad can see now that the paper is Nate's official stationary. He sits down on the edge of the bed that takes up most of the space. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I'm sure." Nate's voice is firm. "I'm only not so clear on how to begin."

"Dear Mr. President..."

"Yeah, you're such a comedian, Colbert."

"Come here," Brad murmurs, sliding a foot out and hooking it around Nate's ankle, tugging at him. Nate swivels up out of the chair, putting one hand on either side of Brad's hips, leaning over him. Brad cups his jaw and kisses him firmly. "Are you really so unhappy here?" he asks against Nate's skin.

Nate makes a frustrated noise. "It's like a sobka pit. A goddamned black hole. It's no wonder nothing gets done." His fingers flex on the bed. "I don't remember what it's like not to be in politics. Is it so bad that I want to get away from it for a while?"

"Nate. I doubt you've run from anything in your life."

"I can't effect the change I want, even if I stay another term. Four years, eight years..." He shakes his head. "It's never enough time and I'm tired. I'm _tired_. And I shouldn't be. I need a change."

Brad kisses him again, then grabs his hips and pushes him back into the chair. "Write your letter. Tell Ferrando what you just told me."

When they land two hours later, the letter is sealed in an envelope, waiting. Brad threads his fingers through Nate's and walks him upstairs to the bedroom, then slowly strips the clothes from his body and guides him down onto the bed.

*

Nate takes the letter with him the following day, to his weekly strategy meeting with the President. Brad can't hear any of their conversation, sitting outside the room reading the Post and occasionally responding to Ray's tirade about some conservative Congresswoman and her fight against first-person shooter video games. If not for the knot in his stomach, it would feel like any other relaxed Sunday.

"You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Brad glances up from the hockey scores. "It's not my fault that your balls never dropped, thus your pimple-covered, pasty, pre-teen ass is going to get carded buying GTA Nine."

"Seven," Ray grumbles, glaring. Brad offers him Arts & Living and Ray offers him the finger.

Brad grins. "Buck up, little camper, and I'll be sure to tell the Easter Bunny that Ray-Ray would like the latest Disney Princess release in his basket."

"Fuck you, Easter is like, months away."

Brad allows his grin to widen. Ray scowls. "You'll miss me when I'm gone," Brad admonishes.

"The hell I will."

The door opens with a soft click and Nate slips out. Brad is sort of relieved to see the resolute expression on his face. "Let's go," he says.

Ray is driving, so it's just them in the back of the car. Brad curls his hand around Nate's elbow and doesn't say anything, waiting for him to speak first. They're almost to the residence when Nate says, "He didn't put up much of a fight."

Brad had read the letter; he knows the things that Nate had written. "Were you expecting one?"

"Honestly, I don't know what I was expecting."

He doesn't say anything more until they're inside, and then he turns to Brad. "I'm going on the treadmill. Don't stop me for anything less than a national emergency."

"Roger that."

Brad retrieves his laptop from the guest room and sits at Nate's desk in the study. He checks his email, the weather, and browses computer hardware on Amazon for a while, thinking idly about buying a faster processor. He stops looking when he realizes he's not sure where to have one shipped. Care of the Naval Observatory? Care of the Secret Service? It can wait. He powers down the computer and closes it.

The study smells faintly of Nate's cologne. Brad wonders if the leather chair he's sitting in belongs to Nate, or if it came with the house. Maybe Nate will steal it.

He's poured himself a drink - they still haven't finished off the hidden bottle of scotch - and has settled back with an Eisenhower biography when Nate comes in, damp from a shower and in an incongruous combination of navy slacks and a Dartmouth t-shirt.

"Better?" Brad asks.

"Somewhat." Nate stops in front of a picture hanging on the wall, looking at it like he'd forgotten it was even there. From a few feet away, Brad can see that it's Nate and his ex-fiancee with the President of South Africa. Nate reaches and takes it from the nail, his mouth turned into something close to a frown, a little wistful. "I was awful to Trish," he says.

Brad protests, "You weren't," because it's all he can think to say.

"No, I was terrible. I didn't ever love her," Nate says quietly. "I would have married her because it was in my best goddamn interest to play straight and pretend I like pussy best of all. Have a few kids, maybe. I could deal with the kids, I sort of _want_ kids. That wouldn't have been a problem. But it would still have been a huge fucking lie. She deserved better than me."

Brad doesn't want to say that maybe it was for the best that Tricia had backed out of the engagement. He spins his glass on the desk. "It's a shitty thing when you realize your life isn't what you want."

"But it was." Nate sets the picture face-down on the arm of the sofa and scrubs his hands over his face. "Fuck. I had a plan. A goddamned path. Led right to the Oval fucking Office, and I was sticking to it, moving through the ranks like I thought I should."

"Doing what you think you should is in no way the same as doing what you want," Brad replies, meeting Nate's gaze. "You're one of the smartest people I have ever met. I have every confidence in your ability to lead. I would have followed you into battle in a heartbeat. But you're not _ruthless_ , Nate."

Nate's exhale is shaky. "Yeah."

Brad just looks at him.

Nate shrugs. He picks up Brad's glass and takes a sip. "Godfather's going to be making the announcement tonight," he says. His voice sounds hollow. He turns from the bookshelf as Brad stands up. "The sooner, the better is what he said. I thought he'd wait a day at least, but." He shrugs again. "What are they going to write about me in the history books?"

"That you were one fearless, smart son of a bitch, sir, who survived people shooting at him, a motherfucking bomb scare and, harshest of all, politics in Washington."

Nate lets out a choked laugh and waves a hand. "Be honest with me."

"All right." He pauses for a moment, thinking, before he says, "If I'm being honest, then, well, I'm not used to caring quite so much whether one single person lives or dies. I find myself incredibly emotionally invested in your well-being. It is rapidly approaching an unacceptable level, Nate, and I will be _immeasurably_ relieved when you're no longer likely to get shot at every few months."

It's the best he can do, the closest he can come to actually saying what it is he's starting to believe he needs from Nate.

The look that slips over Nate's face is not one that Brad can easily decipher, and Nate steps towards him. "I did lock the door, right?"

"Did you?"

Nate presses him up against the wall, and Brad goes willingly. Nate's hands lock around his wrists. "An unacceptable level of emotional investment?" Nate asks, his gaze dark.

"Yes."

"I don't like the sound of that."

Brad leans his head back, baring his throat in reply, waiting to see what Nate will say next.

"I would much rather you take ownership of this," Nate murmurs. "Responsibility is important."

"You don't want me to take ownership of what we're doing. Because I think I'd end up kidnapping you back to California with me and locking you up in my apartment so no one but me can ever touch you again." _That_ is so much closer to the way Nate makes him feel.

Nate blinks at him. "Fuck, Brad, don't fucking say things like that if you're not going to do them."

Brad spins them around so Nate is the one with his back to the wall and kisses him hungrily. Nate allows him to, but not for long, and then he's pushing Brad away. "No time. I don't want to start what we can't finish right now. I have to go be on camera in an hour."

Brad swallows and steps back.

"When this is over, I'll let you do anything you want to me," Nate promises. He stands up straight again, all business. "Right now, I need to change my shirt."

Brad moves out of his way. He straps on his Kevlar again, goes to wait by the front door, and when Nate comes back down in a crisp new shirt and gray tie, he walks him down to the waiting car with Ray behind the wheel. They don't speak on the drive. Nate stares straight ahead, his eyes on nothing, and Brad shifts his gaze from window to window until they stop.

The camera flashes are blinding as he follows Nate from the vehicle. Nate doesn't pause to speak to the reporters, just waves and continues into the White House. Kocher is waiting for them. "Mr. Vice President," he says to Nate.

Nate asks how the evening is going and Kocher lifts an eyebrow. "Interesting, to say the least, sir."

The President is outside the press room with his own press secretary. Brad can hear the low murmurs of the corps inside, no doubt wondering why they've been summoned. "Are you sure you won't reconsider, Nate?" Ferrando asks, his hands clasped behind his back. "It's not too late."

"It is," Nate replies. "I've made my decision."

Ferrando nods. "Understood. John?"

Brad moves back against the wall, out of the way. He meets Nate's gaze for a second as he hears Sixta announce the President, and then Nate is following Ferrando into the press room.

Ray slides over. "What's going on?"

"The President is announcing that he'll be finding a new running mate for the next election," Brad murmurs. He doesn't miss the horrified expression that flashes across Ray's face.

There's an explosion of noise from inside, dozens of reporters no doubt all shouting for attention. "I don't like not being in there," Ray says.

"Me neither." Something inside of Brad starts to itch for Nate, and he slaps it down. This is not the time. This is not the place. Another hour, two at the most, and he can have Nate tied to the bed and forgetting all about Washington. He's very glad the bed has posts and that he has more than one tie.

"You ever watch that _I Love the 80s_ show?" Ray asks after a few minutes have passed. "They got it rerunning on VH1 sometimes. It's the most awful shit you can imagine."

"Ray, you grew up in the eighties," Brad replies. He can't believe VH1 is still on the air, and says as much.

"Fuck yeah," Ray replies. "They show more music videos than MTV, dude."

Brad rolls his eyes. "Why are you watching TV for music videos when the internet exists? Hell, I bet even your cheap-ass phone can stream YouTube."

There's another loud clamor from inside and then the door opens. Ferrando's security detail exits first, then the President, then Nate. Brad and Ray fall into step behind him.

They go home. _Home._ Brad's not entirely sure when he started thinking of it as such, instead of as the place where he's bunking until the end of this mission. But he's gotten used to sleeping in Nate's bed, used to sleeping with Nate next to him. He's gotten used to the scent of Nate's skin after a long day, and now he knows the way Nate smells after sex.

In no way is he ready for this to come to an end.

He stands in the bedroom, remote in hand, watching the local news on Nate's television. There's some footage of the venue evacuation in Iowa, a crowd of people shoving out the doors. "They're trying to pinpoint the 911 call," he says to Nate.

Nate laughs. "How much do you want to bet that it was some stupid teenager, and now they're gonna be in a fuckload of trouble?"

"I'm sure."

Nate sits down on the bed, pulling his sweater up and off. On screen, the breaking news banner starts to scroll.

"Turn it off," Nate says.

Brad does, setting the remote on the dresser. "Are you okay?" he asks quietly.

"As okay as I can be, I guess."

"Do you know who the President is going to tap for your slot?"

"I told him he should look at Bryan Patterson," Nate replies. Brad knows that Patterson, the current Secretary of State, has been with Ferrando since he was SecDef. "I think he's probably the best pick."

Brad nods, unbuckling his belt. "You think he'll take your advice?"

"I do." Nate looks up from his shirt buttons. "Why are you all the way over there?"

Brad grins, stepping out of his slacks, and then tossing them over the corner chair. He walks towards Nate, who parts his knees so Brad can stand between them.

"Christ, you're a giant," Nate murmurs, sliding warm hands up Brad's thighs to cup his crotch.

"Shut up and play with my balls some more," Brad orders, and Nate laughs, pressing with his fingertips. He leans forward, rubbing his face against Brad's stomach, and Brad drops his hands to Nate's head with a sigh, tracing the contours of bone with his fingertips.

Nate tugs his briefs down. "Brad," he says. His breath tickles.

Brad's already so hard it aches, just from Nate's light touch. Nate doesn't say anything else. Brad rubs his ear and asks, "What?"

Nate shakes his head, stubble rubbing along Brad's skin. "I don't know what I was going to say."

Brad doubts that, but he's not going to push. "You're wearing too many clothes," is what he tells Nate instead. "C'mon. Get naked so I can touch you for real."

Nate scrambles back on the bed and takes off the rest of his clothes. Brad watches him strip, sure that his gaze is greedy and possessive. _Of all the people in the world to want,_ he tells himself, _you sure chose a high-value target._

A target that's staring up at him with an unreadable expression and repeating his name with force. "Brad. _Brad._ "

Brad climbs on top of him, mouthing at the spot where Nate's neck meets his shoulder, tasting the salt on his skin. He stays up on his knees and elbows, keeping Nate trapped beneath him. Not that Nate couldn't free himself if he wanted to. Brad nips at his collarbone.

"It's like you were having some sort of epiphany there, what was it?" Nate pushes, hands skimming down Brad's back, fingertips following the lines of his tattoo.

Brad lifts his head. "That it's crazy how much I want you."

Nate's face registers satisfaction, Brad notes, as well as pleasure. "Me, too," he says, and arches up for a kiss that Brad returns with interest, sucking on Nate's lower lip until Nate growls and pushes him back.

"I want to tie you up," Brad says, at the same time that Nate says, "I want to fuck you."

Brad coughs and stares down at him, feeling completely caught off-guard. He hasn't even thought about that, about Nate maybe wanting _that_. And he's not sure why he hasn't thought about letting Nate fuck him. _It's not like what you're doing isn't already straight-up, for-real, actual-definition gay_ , the little voice reminds him. _He sucked your cock, that's pretty goddamned homosexual._

Nate's staring back at him, rubbing his heel over Brad's calf. "Well," he says finally, "I guess those two things are sort of - diametrically opposed?"

"Sorry, I was having a five-second sexuality crisis."

Nate raises a brow. "And?"

Brad grins down at him. "And I've come to the conclusion that I'm totally gay for you, sir."

"Because your hard-on wasn't already proof of that," Nate replies, rolling his eyes.

Brad grinds against him in revenge, watching the way Nate's face goes slack with pleasure and enjoying the expression on him. "I don't think our desires are all that opposite, Nate," he murmurs against Nate's jaw, in between kisses.

"Oh?"

"I would just have to be on top." He presents the option like it's the most logical thing in the world, and Nate groans loudly, bucking up against him. "You like that idea?"

"Do I like the idea of you fucking yourself on my cock? Jesus fucking Christ, Brad, I could come just thinking about it."

"I am gratified to know that you anticipate my ass to be so amazing that you could come just imagining it," Brad manages to get out; admittedly he has to breathe heavily in between words, since Nate seems to have given up on control and is rutting up against him, everything slick with precome and sweat.

"You - you said anticipate, does that mean you'll-" Nate doesn't finish his question because he's groaning and coming, hot and wet over Brad's stomach and groin and thighs.

"Fuck, that's hot," Brad gasps out against Nate's neck and lets go of his own control, letting his whole body crash down on top of Nate's in a rush of friction as he comes.

When he can breathe again and before he loses his nerve, he says, "Yes, you can fuck me, if you think we can possibly get to the fucking instead of coming all over each other like teenagers."

Nate's answering chuckle is raspy and low. "No lie, I like it when you come all over me." Then he pushes at Brad's shoulders. "But now you should get off me before we fall asleep all gross like this."

Brad rolls to the side and blinks up at the ceiling, not moving until a wet washcloth smacks him in the chest. He swipes it over himself, shivering at the sensation of air against newly damp skin, then flings it back at Nate with a sigh.

Footsteps, then the light clicks off. The bed dips when Nate lands beside him again, now wearing a pair of boxers. Brad thumbs the waistband. "You want I should find some- "

"No, you're good." Nate slings a warm leg over his, heel pressing into Brad's calf. "Night."

Brad turns his head in the dark and presses a tired kiss to Nate's willing mouth. "Night," he says. He's asleep in seconds.

*

In the morning he wakes up alone in the bed, but it's still warm where Nate had been, so Brad knows he couldn't have been alone too long. And as if on cue, Nate appears in the bathroom doorway, shorts low on his hips and towel in hand. "Sorry I woke you up," he says, "but I had to piss."

"Come back to bed," Brad says without thinking. He stretches out an arm in Nate's direction.

"I'd love to, but the alarm's about to go off."

Brad turns and squints at the clock. Nate's right. _That's disappointing._ He hauls himself out of the warm blankets and turns off the alarm before it can start to beep. "You want the treadmill first, or should I?"

"You go ahead. I'm gonna skip the run today." Nate yawns hugely, not even trying to cover it.

Brad feels a surge of affection and leans in as he passes, catching Nate's mouth with his own. _This is who we've become,_ he thinks, _people who kiss good morning_. He feels Nate's hand firm on the back of his neck. Yeah, leaving is gonna hurt like hell.

It's almost a normal Monday, aside from the blaring headline on the Post, and the fact that every person Nate passes on his way from meeting to meeting wants to stop and discuss his decision. Brad regards all of them sharply, even the Senators and aides that he's come to be friendly with.

He even whirls on Ray, when Ray digs a pointy elbow into his side. "Whoa, down boy," Ray hisses. "What's your problem today?" He follows Brad's gaze. "You and Bravo have a lover's quarrel or something?"

There's no way he could know, Brad tells himself sternly. "Shut up, Person, before I decide I want to feed you to the First Lady's pomeranian."

Ray affects a wounded look, slapping a hand over his heart. "You wouldn't let Pickles eat me."

"Don't think I won't," he says, keeping it menacing. "One bite at a time."

"Disgusting. Why you gotta go all Silence of the Lambs on me, Brad?"

Brad shrugs, watching as people sign in and out of the building, passing through the arches of the metal detectors. "Has there been any more contact with the sniper?"

Ray shakes his head. "Nothing since he mailed that fucking rifle. That was fucked, man."

"That's too soft a word for it," Brad opines, glancing down the hallway towards the room that Nate is holed up in with yet another committee. His stomach rumbles. He looks at the square face of his watch. "Time."

"Copy that."

It's another seven minutes before the door opens and Nate emerges. "Gents," he says crisply. He looks a little worn around the edges.

Brad meets his gaze briefly. "Sir."

"I'd like to walk." Nate buttons up his coat. It's a longer black wool pea coat, heavy and silk-lined, and it looks so sharp on him that Brad mostly wants to crowd him up against the nearest wall and divest him of it. _Inappropriate for Senators' offices, Brad._

Nate is oblivious to Brad's thoughts as he continues, "I'm hoping it will wake me up some." He tugs his scarf up a little, trying to get it closer to his ears.

"I bought one of those French press coffee things the other day," Brad replies, buttoning his own coat. Ray glances at him, one eyebrow raised, but Brad ignores him.

Nate's grin is a quick flash. "Coffee's at home, but cold air is right outside the door."

"Point," Brad allows. He slips the small optics from his pocket. "Be right back."

As the cold air whips across his face, Brad feels a vague longing for hot southern California and the smooth ocean. He doesn't like the Atlantic nearly as much. Lifting the binoculars to his face, he scans first the buildings on the opposite side of the street. Glossy office windows, with people-shapes inside. No one is standing and watching. He looks down the roadway. There's a woman signaling for a cab, a couple entering the coffeeshop on the corner, and a man holding hands with two small children, who are tugging him impatiently down the sidewalk.

Walt jogs past him, going to check the three-block route. Brad feels the irrational urge to vet every person in the coffeeshop, but knows it would be impossible. He scans up his side of the street. It's the same as the other. He keeps checking, though, lingering on various people one by one, until Walt returns. "No obstacles," he reports.

Brad thumbs his radio. "All clear."

Nate and Ray come out, discussing the football post-season, and Brad drops into place.

They make it two blocks before the first shot misses, sending up a puff of dust as it hits brick.

The second bullet zips the very edge of Nate's shoulder, spinning him halfway around. Brad lunges, arms out, getting between Nate and the gun, and the third slams into his chest. He looks down. It feels like slow-motion. The slug is embedded in his bulletproof vest. There are drops of Nate's blood on the pavement, maybe. He thinks people are screaming, and then things speed up again as he hears the pops from Ray's 9mm. Walt is shoving both him and Nate backwards into a sheltered doorway.

On the sidewalk, the shooter crumples, and Brad watches Ray and Walt both stalk forward and stand over him, guns aimed. "Brad," Nate says from where he's pressed between Brad and the wall, his voice catching, "Brad, there's blood on you."

Brad doesn't think the guy is getting up again. "It's yours," he gasps, hurrying through the buttons on Nate's coat – ruined – and pushing it off his shoulder. He presses his palm to the shallow wound, which is slowly seeping blood. But it's not gushing, not pumping out of his body in time with his heart. There's no bullet actually embedded in Nate's flesh, and for that, Brad is grateful. "Does it hurt?"

Nate's eyes are wide. "No."

The sound of sirens rises through the air. Ray is shouting, "Where the fuck did he even come from?", but Brad is focused only on Nate. For the first time in his life, the smell of blood and cordite is making him nauseous.

"You're not breathing very deeply," Nate observes.

"What? Oh. It hurts. Like I got fucking punched."

Nate reaches out, and Brad can see that his fingers are shaking as he pries the bullet from the vest. Brad wants to cover Nate's hand with his own, wants to kiss him and taste that he's still alive, but the sirens are too close. "Fuck, Brad."

"I know," Brad whispers, and then the police and the EMTs and a dozen more Secret Service agents are upon them, and it's the last he sees of Nate. Tires squeal as an ambulance rockets him away, flanked by squad cars.

"Sir, are you injured?" one of the EMTs asks, hovering at Brad's side.

"I'll have a hell of a bruise tomorrow, but no," Brad replies, elbowing past the guy, and walking towards the shooter. Ray is lifting a tattered wallet from an inside pocket on the man's coat. There's a bullet hole in it. Half his face is gone, and he is completely, obviously dead.

"Schwetje," Ray reads. "Sound fucking familiar at all?"

"Our guy never signed his goddamned name."

"You okay, Brad?"

"The best that I can be right now," Brad replies. He knows he sounds tired.

Ray rises from his crouch, squeezes Brad's arm so hard it hurts, and leaves him be.

 

He's not sure what ends up being done with Schwetje's body after he stares at it, bloody and cooling on the sidewalk, long enough to burn the image into his brain forever. He gives a statement to the police, two separate Secret Service agents, a JAG lawyer, someone from White House counsel, Wynn, and finally the President himself. It's after midnight as they stand just outside the east door of the Oval Office, looking out at the snow-covered Rose Garden. Ferrando puffs in a cigar and listens to Brad's account of what happened.

"You did your job, Sergeant," he says when Brad finishes.

Brad looks out at the winter landscape, not really seeing anything. "It doesn't feel done, sir."

"It will, son. It will. You can go back to your old life." He pauses. "I'm going to see about getting you a medal."

Brad scratches his ear through his cap and thinks about what he's going to say next. If anyone deserves the truth, it's the President. Then he says it. "Sir, I didn't do it for God and country, or because I was ordered to do so. I stepped in front of that bullet because I didn't want to see Nate die on a motherfucking sidewalk."

Ferrando glances at him, but there's no surprise in his expression. The tip of the cigar glows for a brief moment. "Fick is one of the most exceptional men I've ever known. I suppose I should tell him that one of these days, before I lose him to teaching and writing and all the other things he's going to go be exceptional at outside of Washington. You could certainly do worse than to have Nate in your life, Sgt. Colbert, but I doubt you could do better."

"Thank you, Mr. President." Brad feels oddly like he's just asked for Nate's hand, or something equally as stupid and romantic. Christ, he's getting mushier with age. This has to stop, especially since he's _leaving_.

Fuck, but it hurts to think about.

"We'll get you back to California as soon as you're ready," Ferrando says. He stubs out his cigar. Brad knows he's being dismissed, snapping to attention and saluting, but the President simply holds out a hand for Brad to shake. "Thank you, Brad. You've served your country with distinction and I won't soon forget it."

"Thank you, sir."

Ferrando strides into his office, trailed by his agents and passing Wynn, who is walking towards Brad.

"Gunny," Brad greets him. "Haven't I already seen you once today?"

"That was in an official capacity," Mike says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, I'll drive you to the residence."

Brad feels suddenly exhausted, in a way he hasn't felt in years. It's like even his bones are tired, protesting every step towards the car. His chest hurts where the bullet had hit and a headache is starting to throb in this temples. "I'm starting to think I'm too fucking old for all of this, Mike," he says quietly. "Maybe it really is time to retire, carve out some sort of civilian life for myself."

Mike ignores this. "Come on," he repeats, knocking his arm into Brad's and nudging him towards the passenger door. "I'm being told that the Vice President is waiting up for you."

"Is he all right?" he asks now.

"Ten minutes, you can see for yourself."

Brad watches the lights of Washington flicker by as Wynn speeds down Massachusetts Avenue. "I assume I'm going back to Pendleton now that Schwetje's dead," he says finally.

"I think we can keep you here a few more days. There's going to be a press conference tomorrow."

"Are you putting me on camera?"

"Not unless you want to be."

Brad shakes his head. "I don't."

"That's what I thought. But your name is still going to be released, and I am honestly sorry about that." Mike guides the car left and slows at the gate. He shows his badge to the naval guard. "You did save the VP's life, Brad. That's a big deal whether you want the attention or not," he says as they pull up in front of the residence.

"Make sure that Ray and Walt get their due," Brad insists, unbuckling and opening the door. "They're heroes, too. You coming in?"

"No. I'll see you tomorrow. And I won't send the car until at least ten, unless the President insists."

Brad waves and shuts the door, then looks at the house. Lights are shining through nearly every window. There are two agents he doesn't know standing on the sidewalk, and Rudy is near the front door. "I'm glad you're alive, brother," he says with a smile as Brad approaches, and pulls him into a hug.

Brad returns the hug, smacking Rudy on the back. "Thanks, man."

"Now maybe he'll go to sleep." Rudy jerks his thumb at the house.

"We can hope." Brad opens the door and goes inside. He sets his hat and gloves on the foyer table, and turns off the lamp that's burning. Nate doesn't immediately appear, so he switches off several more lamps as he moves through the house, aiming for the study. But Nate's not there either. Brad turns off the light and closes the door.

He sees the door to the basement is open and the stairs are lit, so he goes down. "Nate?"

"Yeah, I'm down here."

Nate is sitting at the square table in the kitchen, a place Brad is fairly certain he's never spent more than five minutes the entire time he's lived there. There's a mug in front of him, a bottle of brandy beside it, and a plate with what looks like some sort of stir-fry. He doesn't appear to be actually eating. "I didn't even know we had all those vegetables," he says as Brad approaches.

Brad turns a chair around and straddles it. "That's because I took over the grocery ordering from your secretary, who apparently spent three years ordering you nothing but apples, Wheaties and whole-grain bread." He picks up Nate's fork and spears a piece of broccoli. Whatever Nate had done to it, it's a little salty, but still crisp-tender. "Not bad. What are you drinking?"

"Decaf," Nate groans, pushing it towards him. Brad tries it. It's heavy on brandy and sugar.

He takes another sip before announcing, "Wynn says he won't send a car for us before ten tomorrow."

"That's nice of him." Nate takes his coffee back, adding more liquor. "I sort of want to get drunk out of my fucking mind," he mutters. "Just – forget everything. And before you launch into some lecture, I turned down the prescription painkillers."

"You'd be better off just getting some sleep," Brad says quietly.

Nate gets up, taking the stir-fry with him, and scrapes what's left into the garbage. Then he sets the plate in the sink but doesn't turn back around. Brad sees him grip the edge of the countertop so hard that his knuckles turn white and his shoulders rise from the strain. He gets up from the chair and approaches Nate, first laying a hand gently on his back so he knows Brad's there, then sliding his arms around Nate's waist. "Hey."

Nate shudders and his head drops forward. Brad presses a kiss to the back of his neck, then a kiss to the bandage on his shoulder. "I don't-" Nate starts. He stops briefly, then continues. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about all of this. I should be angry, right? Schwetje tried to kill me. He fucking shot you trying to get to me!"

"I had armor," Brad reminds him gently, molding his body to Nate's. "You didn't."

"I just feel numb," Nate whispers. "And part of me – you're going to think I've lost my fucking mind, Brad, when I say this – part of me is mad that the motherfucker is dead, because it means you're leaving."

Brad drops a kiss underneath his ear. "Me too." What else can do he do but admit he feels the same way?

Nate turns in his arms. There are dark shadows underneath his eyes and his mouth is a hard, bitter line. Brad reaches up, tries to smooth it with his thumb. That earns him an upward turn of one corner, and then Nate is pressing his face into Brad's neck. "Take me to bed," he says. "Please."

Half of Brad wants to just push him down onto the tiled floor, and the other half wants to pick Nate up in his arms and carry him to the nearest bed. But both of them are sore, so the floor is out of the question, and he's not sure he could carry Nate up two flights of stairs right now. Especially not in front of anyone that might be in the house.

"You go first, to be safe," he whispers in Nate's ear. "I'll pick up a little down here, then come up."

"Okay." Nate kisses him hotly and goes. Brad watches him walk to the stairs, because he can't _not_.

He has a few swallows of the brandy straight from the bottle, in between rinsing Nate's mug and picking up a chunk of carrot that must have flown off the counter when Nate was chopping. With his damned cas-evac shoulder, too. _Jesus, Nate._

Then he goes upstairs. Nate is naked except for the bright white bandage, kneeling on the bed, slowly stroking his cock. Brad leans against the wall and watches, taking his time in loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.

"Waiting isn't going to gain us more time," Nate says. "You should get the fuck over here."

Brad yanks off his tie and stalks over to the bed. Nate grabs his wrist and pulls him down, hard, and then Nate's straddling him, lowering his head.

Teeth scrape over his collarbone and Brad hisses. "Yes, that. More of that. Put your mark all over me." _So that tomorrow when I leave, I carry you with me._ The bruise on his chest won't be enough.

Nate's fingers dig hard into his hips, hard enough that there will probably be fingerprint-shaped smudges tomorrow. "How did this happen that you ended up mine?" he breathes in Brad's ear, and flicks Brad's earlobe with his tongue.

"Somebody wanted to kill you, sir, that's how." Brad arches up against him, rubbing his cock shamelessly against Nate's thigh.

"Oh, that," Nate groans, settling his full weight down onto Brad and sliding his hands up to wrap around Brad's wrists. "How bad do you hurt?"

"It's tolerable. How's the shoulder?"

"I fell off my bike once as a kid, that hurt more."

"You only fell off once?" He flexes his fingers against Nate's grip and grins.

Nate's grin is sharp and promising. "I'm a quick study."

*

Standing barefoot in the guest room, Brad looks down at his service uniform where he's laid it out on the bed. His suits have been zipped into their travel bag, and the rest of his things are packed and waiting by the door so that they're ready when the time comes. He'd made himself get up and do it last night after Nate had fallen asleep, moving soundlessly through the house and retrieving his items from all the places they'd ended up over the last six months.

Six months. Brad can't remember the last time he'd spent six months in a place with a decent bed, easy access to good food, anything he could have needed close at hand. Time to go back to making do, time to sweat off twenty pounds in Venezuela and then freeze his balls off in Alaska. Time to burn the fat from his soul once again.

The thought makes him feel hollow inside. He pulls on the uniform and ignores the bitter taste in his mouth. _Focus, Colbert._

"I think this is the first time I've seen you in uniform," Nate says from behind him, and Brad turns, hands busy with his dress shirt. Nate is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his pale, moss-colored button-down.

"Are we trying to match today or was that unintentional?" Brad's quick with the tie, and after all these years, his fingers can find the exact spot for the clip without him needing to look.

Nate's smile is bittersweet. "Completely unintentional, I assure you." He takes in Brad's uniform jacket, heavy with badges and ribbons. "I'm surprised you don't fall over in that."

"I've been a lot of places, done a lot of things," Brad replies. Without meaning to, he touches the shiny-new Vice Presidential Service Badge. Nate sees it, and his smile turns mischievous. "I didn't mean it like that," Brad laughs. He picks up his garrison cap.

"It's a singular claim." Nate unfolds himself and steps closer, his hands rising, but then he stops. Brad lifts an eyebrow at him. "I don't want to mess you up," Nate says.

 _Too late._ "We should go."

Nate nods but doesn't move. "When I was a kid, the thing I was most afraid of was the water," he says quietly, "and when I was at BRC, the last school I wanted was advanced water survival. And my commanding officer saw that in me, somehow, and assigned me to it. The first day in the pool at Las Pulgas, when I was holding on to this fucking fifty-pound barbell and sinking, part of me was convinced that I was going to drown and that I'd never see anyone I knew or loved ever again. That I was going to die without being able to tell my parents or my sisters one more time that I loved them. It's a thought I didn't waste a second on in Iraq, but for a minute in that pool, it was all I could comprehend."

He lifts a hand and touches his shoulder, where Brad knows the bandage is. Winter sunlight through the window plays across his face, highlighting curves and angles, banishing the darkness under his eyes for brief, flickering moments. He's staring at Brad with a hungry, almost startled gaze, as if he's coming to some conclusion that he truly hadn't expected.

Brad knows that look. He'd seen it on himself in the mirror. "Don't, Nate," he murmurs. "I know."

Nate nods again. His throat works as he swallows.

"We should go," Brad repeats.

"Yeah." Nate turns and walks out of the room. Brad picks up his overcoat and follows.

Once they're at the White House, Nate is shown into the Oval Office. Kocher comes up next to Brad. "The press conference is going to start in about fifteen minutes. If you'd like to be in the room, I'd go now."

Brad thanks him and walks quickly to the press room. It's already packed with reporters and cameramen, and he slides in along the back wall. News of the assassination attempt had hit the media almost immediately after it had happened, but this is the official response. In front of him, two CNN lackeys are speculating on who will be taking Nate's slot on the ballot.

Silence reigns once Sixta enters. _He's trained them well_ , Brad thinks, suppressing a chuckle. Sixta wastes no time, giving the President's introduction in his distinctive bark. Ferrando walks to the podium, Nate behind and to his right.

"Brad," Wynn says in his ear, and Brad starts. He turns his head. Wynn is frowning. "I just got off the phone with your company commander. There's a flight out of Dulles in an hour, he wants you on it."

 _Fuck_. Brad stares straight ahead again, over the President's shoulder to Nate behind him. The lights are too bright, he knows that Nate can't see him here in the back of the room. "Roger that."

The President begins to speak, and Wynn leans in closer. "There's a car outside for you. Your bags are in it. And the Vice President wanted me to tell you that he left something in the outside pocket of one of them."

"Thanks, Mike." He shakes Wynn's hand.

"Take care of yourself."

Brad doesn't let himself look until the plane has taken off. It's only a small slip of paper, and in block letters, Nate has written _NO GOODBYES_.

He leans his forehead against the tiny, cool airplane window and closes his eyes.

*

Brad goes back to California, back to his stale apartment in Oceanside, back to Pendleton. He does training exercises in Hawaii, in Guam, in the middle of the Pacific fucking Ocean. He lives in a rubber boat with three other guys for a week off the coast of New Zealand. He surfs when he can, takes his bike up and down the coast on weekends.

He finds himself watching more news than he has in years, the TV constantly on either CNN or C-SPAN, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nate and hating the way he feels like he's been punched every time he sees the man.

Mike Wynn calls, twice. The first is to ask if he's settling back into being a Recon Marine again. "Like breathing," Brad had told him. The second is to tell him that no further threats had been received that could be attributed to anyone even associated with Schwetje, calming fears of there having been a leak in the Secret Service.

"The things in his notes - frankly, after his twenty years of being a Beltway insider, I'm not surprised he knew them," Mike had said.

Schwetje had left behind a wife and child. Brad felt bad for them, in an abstract sort of way. No person deserved to lose another like that. The investigation had determined that he'd gone off medications that no one had even known he was on, not even his wife, and he'd simply lost control and become fixated on Nate.

In the aftermath of the attempt, Patterson had offered to step down and let Nate claim the VP slot once again, but Nate had declined. This Brad read in an email from Wright, which had arrived in his inbox late one night when he'd been unable to sleep. _Thought you might like to know_ , the subject line had read.

Nate had given a speech while Brad was out in the rubber boat, but he'd invested in - and modified - a DVR for a reason, and it was there waiting for him when he got back. Nate was doing a few campaign stops, wholeheartedly endorsing the new VP candidate. Brad had read online that there was an unofficial, mock slogan making the rounds: _If you liked Fick, you'll love Patterson._

It makes him laugh, and it makes him hurt, because he misses Nate so much that he has to shut it away and refuse to think about it, because it's like an entire part of _himself_ is missing.

On screen, Nate takes the stage in a charcoal gray suit and a tie that Brad recognizes instantly; Nate's a _thief_. He's hard before he even thinks about it, his body remembering what they'd done, remembering Nate's bare skin almost before he can pull the image up in his mind. He palms his cock through his shorts, squeezing as Nate begins to talk.

He misses most of what Nate says, his eyes fixated on Nate's mouth, and following Nate's hands as they move in elegant, yet strong gestures. He can watch it again later for the words; right now the need to indulge in this memory is too strong to resist. He jams his hand down his shorts like it's combat, not the privacy of his own apartment, and it takes no more than a few tight strokes before he's coming, arching hard up off the sofa and wishing that when he opens his eyes again, Nate will be there.

"Fuck," he breathes out, panting. But there's still no one there to hear it.

Later, Ray calls. "How is he?" Brad asks.

"Something is missing, man," Ray says. There's semi-audible chatter in the background. "He won't really talk to me, though. You were the only one he'd ever really talk to about stuff. But we'll be out of Washington soon enough, I guess."

"Where to?" He squashes the voice inside him clamoring _here, California, come out here_.

"He hasn't said, you know? So I don't have a fucking clue."

Brad is hopeful, then, just a little.

There's a voicemail when he gets home from a run, the weekend before the election. (He's already voted, absentee.) "Hey, I'm sorry I missed you. I just wanted to hear your voice again," Nate says, and all Brad's nerve endings throb in relief. "Ray's probably told you I'm a fucking mess, but I'm not free of this yet. You don't have to wait for me, Brad, but..." There's a pause. "I'm still in love with you."

He listens to the message once more, then gets the open bottle of tequila from the kitchen counter. He sinks down onto the couch but doesn't move to drink, not for a while. Then he gets so smashed that he throws up in the morning before he goes to work.

Ferrando and Patterson win the election by a narrow margin, as Brad boards a ship that will not return to California for six weeks.

*

Brad's just hung up his jump-rope when the doorbell rings. He'd only gotten back the day before, and he's not expecting anyone, but there have been a few reporters who have found out where he lives, and some of them aren't adverse to showing up at his door and trying to ask questions. "Who is it?" he calls.

"It's me," comes Nate's voice.

Brad wrenches the door open, not ashamed in the slightest of how quickly he does it. "Nate. What are you doing here?"

Nate grins at him, broad and sunny. Christ, his mouth. "Remember how you were going to kidnap me to California and lock me in your apartment so that no one else could touch me ever again? Well, you let down your end of the fucking bargain there, Colbert, so I had to take matters into my own hands and kidnap _myself_ to California."

He steps inside, prying the door from Brad's suddenly numb hand and shutting it.

"Where's your protection detail?" Brad makes himself ask, stepping back to look out the window, keeping a couple meters between himself and Nate, just in case the Secret Service suddenly barges in.

"I fired all of them. Except Ray. He refused to be fired. So he's parked out on the street in that black Lincoln."

Brad sees it. He'll have to go harass Person later. Once he's done with Nate. It might be a while. "And Gunny Wynn let you get away with it?"

"Oh, I told him that I had a private bodyguard waiting for me in California."

Brad resists the terrible pun he wants to make, and the look on Nate's face tells him that Nate's already thought it. He smiles and shakes his head.

"He seemed to know immediately to whom I was referring," Nate continues. He steps forward, hooking a finger in the waistband of Brad's sweaty workout shorts and tugging him close. Brad steps in, feeling the warmth of Nate's body against his own. He runs the back of his hand down the side of Nate's neck and feels him swallow.

Nate feels solid and real and _here_.

"You know I won't always be around, right?" Brad murmurs, already dreading the first time he'll have to ship out and leave Nate behind. "I'm sure the Secret Service isn't too keen on how close we are to Mexico."

"I'll up my protection numbers when you're not here. There's a field office in Santa Ana. Not to mention Riverside and LA."

"That's not quite what I mean." _Are you going to stay here when I'm not and wait for me to come back, are you going to sleep in my bed and cook in my kitchen when I'm gone - and when I'm not?_ He rubs his thumb over Nate's collarbone, dipping beneath the open collar of his button-down. Southern California is too warm for Nate to keep dressing like this. Brad will have to introduce him to board shorts and threadbare t-shirts, like a teenager. It's a pleasing mental image, and one he can quite possibly make real. He strokes the hollow of Nate's throat.

When he'd lived in the residence, it had felt like the world's most grown-up game of playing house, and there had always been the knowledge in the back of his mind that he'd only been allowed in (at least at first) because it was his job to protect. That domesticity had been born out of necessity and he'd known that it would come to an end. This, however, if this is what he thinks – it doesn't ever have to end.

It's been a really fucking long time since Brad wanted that with anyone. Wanted enough that his teeth ached like he'd chewed too many MRE cocoa packets. He doesn't know if he should tell Nate that his hands had itched to touch every single time he'd seen Nate on television since he'd been back here, his mouth had wanted Nate's mouth every time he'd watched him talk on camera. That he'd only ever jerked off to the memories of what they'd done in Washington.

He bumps his fingers against Nate's jaw so that Nate meets his gaze. "Live with me for real," he says softly. "I know it's crazy, but - stay with me and sleep in my bed every night, Nate. _With_ me."

Nate leans forward so that their mouths are almost brushing and says without hesitation, "Yes."

Brad grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him down the hallway to the bedroom. He aims Nate towards the bed and pushes, and Nate goes willingly, still completely dressed, sprawling on Brad's rumpled sheets.

Brad climbs on top of him, cradles Nate's head in his hands, and kisses him the way he's been wanting to for months. Drags his tongue over Nate's lips, then pushes into his mouth, needing to taste. Nate lets him in, slicks his tongue over Brad's.

Brad feels frantic, like he can't get close enough. _I need you._

"People are going to know," Nate gasps, pulling back from the kiss, nipping at Brad's bottom lip as he goes.

"Then it's a good thing that you worked so hard to have Don't Ask, Don't Tell repealed." He tugs Nate's shirt from his waistband and swiftly unbuttons it.

"I meant everyone else."

"I don't care." He skims his palms down Nate's sides to his hips. "Do you?"

"I wouldn't have come here if I did. For fuck's sake, Brad, I'd still be miserable in D.C. if I hadn't met you, and you know it."

 _I do know, I swear._ "I could always retire," he suggests, only half joking. "You could be my sugar daddy, Mr. Vice President."

Nate rolls them over so that he's straddling Brad's chest, his knees under Brad's arms. He pops the button of his fly, then draws down the zipper. Brad lifts a hand to help, but Nate slaps it away. "Did you miss this?" he asks, almost breathless, as he frees his cock. His other hand slides around the back of Brad's head, and Brad lets himself be lifted up, Nate's fingers strong against the base of his skull.

"Every fucking day," Brad replies, licking his lips just to see the look on Nate's face, and then he opens his mouth.

*

"I think I might write a book," Nate says, coming back out of the bathroom with a washcloth in hand. He tosses it at Brad.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Brad wipes the sweat and come and spit off of his skin, then looks at the clock on the nightstand. It's not even six. "Will it make mention of the fact that we just had sex in the middle of the afternoon?" he asks, laughing, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"It's the new me." Nate grins as he grabs his boxers from the floor. "Do you have any food? I couldn't eat on the plane. And don't tell me you'll make me a fucking sandwich."

"Grilled cheese," Brad deadpans. He rolls to the side of the bed and sits up. "Should I go tell Ray to find a place to bunk for the night? There's a Quality Inn that's pretty close."

"Good idea. I think the fact that only a half-dozen people know I'm here makes this a fairly safe location." Nate leans in for a brief kiss.

"Downright clandestine," Brad agrees. He resists the urge to pull Nate down on his lap. _You, me, Ray._ "Who are the other three?"

"Wynn, of course, and Ferrando, and Patterson."

Brad moves clothes aside with his foot until he finds his briefs and t-shirt. He pulls them on and stands up. "I'll have to buy a house eventually, you know. It won't look right for a former Vice President to be living in a cheap fucking apartment."

Nate catches his wrist. "I don't give a damn, Brad."

"I do," Brad says softly, cupping Nate's jaw and kissing the corner of his mouth. He leaves the _I want you to be happy_ unspoken between them.

Nate keeps looking at him, his expression serious yet soft, the whole time they're going out into the kitchen and as Brad rummages through the fridge. "My cheese is really fucking moldy, so we're ordering pizza," Brad says, bumping the door shut with his hip. He meets Nate's gaze. "What is it?"

"You wouldn't let me say that I loved you, before you left," Nate says, the look in his eyes pinning Brad in place. "You should have let me. But - I know why you wouldn't, all right? I know it's been a long fucking time since you let anybody get this close to you, but I'm not just knocking on your door here, Brad, I'm storming your goddamned castle and you'll have to kill me to get rid of me."

Something rocks hard inside of Brad, stunned at the force behind Nate's declaration. He sucks in a breath, says, "You left me that message once. I should have called back. Instead, I got really fucking drunk."

Apprehension flickers across Nate's face. "What would you have said?"

"That I'm still in love with you, too."

Nate smiles like he can't help it and Brad smiles back, reaching for him, dragging his fingers over Nate's skin. Nate steps close, rubs the curve of Brad's ear between his thumb and forefinger. It makes Brad shiver, and he catches Nate's mouth, bites gently on his lower lip. "I mean it," he whispers, as honest as he's ever been. "I love you down to the bone."

They stay like that, neither one of them moving, until Nate's stomach growls and Brad starts to laugh. Nate punches him hard in the arm. "Shut up. Didn't you say something about pizza?"

Brad kisses him once more, firm and quick. "You bet, sir."

*

Nate writes his book. The dedication reads: _For B., who saved me._

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for War Big Bang 2010. Thanks to my fab artists, Cala Jane and Laynie. Their works can be viewed here: http://cala-jane.livejournal.com/250897.html and here: http://freetodream5.livejournal.com/242245.html. Thank-you also to my amazing betas Ruth, Devin and Sam, who all put a lot of time into this for me.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [make this place beautiful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169816) by [Lake (beyond_belief)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake)




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